A Tale Untold
by Aseikh
Summary: Araluen has been invaded by an enemy force, and instead of fleeing with everyone else, Will chooses to stay behind. Everyone believes him dead. Horace returns a few years later, and is surprisingly led to him when searching for the leader of the Resistance. Will agrees to help him reclaim the country, but it seems something he is hiding could be the key to defeating their enemy.
1. Pr: Leaving

**Disclaimer: I do not own Ranger's Apprentice, nor most of the characters used in this story.**

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Will could see them coming long before the others did.

He knew the signs to look for. Beside him, he saw Horace looking to the sky, looking for the cloud of dust that would never appear. It had been raining hard the day before, making it nearly impossible for the Araluen Cavalry to run their horses. That meant no rising dust wherever they walked. The way these people attacked was new as well, different. Instead of using what Horace called siege equipment, they scaled the walls like acrobats. Much like how Will usually did. They didn't come in a large force, as a big number of them slipped into the usual crowd of citizens that flowed in and out of Castle Araluen daily. The others had somehow kept themselves hidden as they approached the castle's walls, taking out all the sentries on their way in. They left none of them alive.

Their tactics scared him.

Not because they were new, but because they were _so_ familiar, Will could have been one of the approaching men. They scaled the walls, just as he'd been doing for his entire life. They ghosted past sentries, and killed them from behind. They blended in.

They could have been Rangers, for all he knew.

Taking that into account, Will wasn't watching for a force of men to come trampling after them. No, they would sneak after the retreating Araluens, and wait until they were in a position where one act would kill them all. Every once and a while, he'd loose an arrow, seemingly off into the shadows, but in reality it would go for one of the enemy. He wouldn't be able to kill all of them before they attacked, but he could try. Horace and the other knights standing with them would give him odd looks, but no one questioned him. Not many would question a Ranger's actions. Especially an angry one at that.

Behind him, the boat creaked, as the occupants quietly readied themselves.

"Sir, we'd better be leaving now. They're ready," murmured the knight beside Horace. Will didn't know his name. He didn't really want to know either. After everything that had happened, he didn't want to meet other people, only to have them shot minutes later. Because that has how it has been, the past few days. And he didn't like it.

He took another arrow in his hand, and nocked it. Scanning the ground, he saw the approaching ghost, drew, and fired. They used the same technique as Rangers. This one being more in the open, the person stumbled back, crying out, and fell to the ground. Will gripped his bow, dropping his arm.

Horace didn't comment on the shot or the dead body, but instead grabbed Will's elbow, and tugged him back. "Let's go Will," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice, "We don't have much more time." The Ranger studied his friend's face.

Will turned away, not wanting to see any more of his face. _I probably look the same, if not worse._ "You lead, I'll watch our backs," he whispered.

The knight nodded, and motioned for the other knights to go in front of him. One by one they boarded the boat, where the Royals and " _important"_ people of the Araluen Kingdom resided. Some were below deck, possibly in shock from the obliteration of their kingdom, and others were on deck. Will could just barely hear Duncan's voice in conversation, but he could also hear Cassandra, Halt, Anthony, and Crowley's respond to him.

Will wanted to hate them.

Will wanted to hate them all for doing this.

Someone tapped Will's shoulder, and slowly he walked backwards to the boat, constantly scanning the horizon and the hillside for any attackers. He saw a few, but none that worried him enough to waste an arrow. The majority of them were probably still hidden away, or back at the castle.

He felt the edge of the boat on the back of his calf, and briefly glanced back long enough to step over it. From there, after making sure he had steady feet, he stepped back up onto the railing, and crouched there. Scanning. Constantly watching. Waiting.

Behind him, they were talking. Probably something he was expected to take part in, but he didn't care. He didn't want to face any of them. Not after they decided to abandon the remaining Araluen citizens, and instead decided to run. Only the _"important"_ people got on, and people who could help defend it. He knew a few couriers were below deck, including his wife and Pauline, and that only a few Rangers were _alive_ to get on. Others decided to stay behind. Will wasn't given an option, considering his position with the Royals, and the secrets he could reveal, but he had made it vocal enough.

He wanted to stay.

The boat, Skandian made, was now pulling away, and the gap was large enough between them and the dock that the ghosts, which Will now referred to them as, stood and plainly walked up to the edge. Will didn't shoot, but instead stared back at them. Literal feet apart, the two enemies stared face-to-face. Neither moved.

They wore material similar to his cloak. The only difference was the colors, and that they wore it all over, instead of just a cloak.

"Holy shit?" muttered the same knight who told Horace it was time to go. Will glanced around him, and noticed that as Horace had walked off to join his wife and father-in-law, the knights had stood beside him, to either side, watching what he watched. The man was commenting on the appearance of the ghosts, which had happened so suddenly Will wondered exactly how accurate the nickname he had given them truly was.

As they turned the bend further down the river, the ghosts were lost to sight. Now the boat was going along a cliff face, fairly close. Will continued to stare ahead, into the wall, as finally the knights dispersed. He didn't move from his crouch.

Glancing behind him, the Ranger realized that no one was paying attention to him. His family were caught in conversation, possibly debating on where the Skandian ship would take them. To Skandia? A closer ally? The knights had dispersed, most either going below deck, or staring out into the expanse of a sea to their other side. The actual Skandians were too busy doing their jobs of running the boat to notice him. He didn't recognize many of them anyways.

 _If I stay behind, here on this boat, what would happen? We'd leave, possibly forever, and I'd become embittered with the actions we did this day. Bitterness ruins things worse than actual death,_ Will thought, turning his eyes back to the craggy cliff wall in front of him. If he stretched out his arm, he'd be able to touch it.

To grab a handhold.

Looking back years later, Will realized he didn't really consider his actions after that simple realization.

He brought only his bow, looping it on his shoulder. He stood straight up, balancing on the railing—an easy feat, for someone who had been balancing there for nearly ten minutes already. He didn't glance back as he reached up, and grabbed the best handhold he could find. He didn't glance over to see the ship continue on its way as he hung on. He didn't look back to his family until he was up at the top, hiding in a small forest. He followed the ship on land, behind and out of sight.

It wasn't long before: "Where's Will?"

Halt had noticed first, his voice suddenly strained and panicked. Not something you heard often from someone like him. Every one of his family members knew how upset he'd been at the prospect of just up and _leaving_. But they apparently hadn't considered that he'd up and _leave them._


	2. Briaz Harbor

**(A/N): The beginning few chapters will probably be shorter, while the middle and end ones will be longer. Just FYI. And thank you all to those of you who commented on the prologue! Tell me what you think of this chapter!**

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From far away, Briaz looked like any other harbor town. Multiple berths for ships, ranging in size from very large, to very small. At the moment, not many ships rested there, but of the few there, something could be told of the town. It brought in a decent amount of revenue from the harbor businesses. It was a _mostly_ upstanding town that had little crime in it's boundaries. The guards did their jobs. The citizen's kept the place clean.

At least, he assumed that's how things were.

Leaning forward, Horace set his elbow on the prow and rested his chin in his hand. He continued to study the town.

From far away, Briaz looked like any other harbor town. Other than the fact that it was the base of operations for the rumored "Resistance", it was. But because of that one problem, Horace could see small groups of men with the colors of the New Exicusea Empire wandering around. Because it was so widely known that the Resistance was in Braiz. It would be hard to dock unnoticed.

As Horace watched, the last group of soldiers turned the corner, and someone stepped out onto one of the empty berths. They had been hiding around the corner of another building . . . waiting? The person raised their arm, and waved for them to come in. Looking around, there were no other ships in sight. Horace turned, and called back along the ship, "Bring us in, skirl." With no acknowledgment, the Skandians moved to begin their transition. The knight, having little prior knowledge of how to work a ship, kept his eyes from the chaos behind him, watching the man beckoning them into the berth.

When they got closer, he was able to make out more details of the man. Taller than the average person, Horace predicted that they were about the same height. He had light brown hair, but deeply tanned skin, nearly brown. His hair was mussed up, from a combination of the wind, and possibly not combing it regularly. As the stranger's position and the ship came level, Horace came face to face with him, but was forced to look up to him. Horace stood up straight, and put a hand on the pommel of his sword. Green, mischievous eyes, and a cocky smirk. Horace automatically disliked him, and kept a grip on his weapon. Technically, he really didn't know what he was getting himself into.

For a few moments, Horace and the stranger studied each other. No weapons visible, but in a town constantly patrolled by strict guards, he had to have at least a dagger on him. Even if the tall stranger wasn't part of the Resistance.

"I assume you're Horace?" The stranger smiled, and looked up and down the ship, taking in the Skandians at the rowing benches and all around. Horace was the odd one out. "Altman, right?" He outstretched his hand down to him, either to pull Horace up to the dock, or shake.

Horace crossed his arms, ignoring the hand, and frowned. "Depends on who's asking."

The man pulled him arm back, and crouched down, so they were nearly level. He shrugged, "That's reasonable. I'm asking for a friend."

Scowling at the evasion of the question, Horace asked, "And who might that be? The friend, that is."

Now the stranger's face was back to the annoying smirk, and to Horace's frustration, he evaded the question once more: "Oh, you know them. Don't worry 'bout that." The stranger go to his feet, standing to his full height and towering over Horace. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and kicked at the docking with one foot. Now Horace finally noticed what the man was wearing. Regular trousers tucked into standard leather boots, surprisingly top quality. A clean light brown shirt, and a black leather work vest over the shirt, were tucked messily into the trousers. They weren't the colors of the "New Exicusea Empire", and they definitely weren't the clothes of a resident. Those wealthy enough to afford that quality of clothing would have fled when Araluen fell. "Assuming you got my implied message," the stranger continued, still smirking, "the name's Elijah. You're Horace?" He asked again.

Uncrossing his arms, Horace looked back to the crew of the wolfship he came on. He didn't know them too well, but they were like many other Skandians. A few saluted as his gaze passed over them, including the skirl. They'd be okay, they weren't doing anything illegal. He hoped. Horace turned back to Elijah to see he had his hand out once more. He took it, and was hauled up onto the dock as he stepped onto the side. Standing beside him, Horace noticed his prediction was correct - they were about the same height, if he counted in Elijah's slouch.

Horace turned back to the Skandians. "Stay here, don't let your men onto land. Keep a low profile, we might need to make a fast exit."

When he turned back around, Elijah was already walking down the dock, his back to Horace. He hurried to catch up, realizing that this man was his only guide around town.

Together, knight and rebel walked openly down the streets of Briaz. As they walked, Horace's assumption of Elijah, who actually preferred being called Eli, was confirmed. When they passed by residents, they'd either wave, walk away, or give a cautious glance. Some were suspicious, others just curious. None of that confirmed for definite that Eli was part of the so-called "Resistance", or that the organization even existed, but it was a handy clue.

Surprisingly, Elijah was giving him a tour of the town. When asked why, he had smiled, and continued to show Horace around. They saw the jeweler's, the blacksmiths, the silversmiths, a boat builder, and maybe a few others. After them, though, he noticed that they were going down streets twice, or turning around instead of continuing on. They'd turn down an alley, and continue on in another street, instead of finishing the last one.

"Where are we going?" Horace asked, finally fed up with the walking back and forth. He said it as they passed the silversmith, for probably the fifth time. Elijah glanced at him, but continued to walk silently, not answering his question at all. They turned into an alley before getting to the jeweler's down the street, and walked onto the adjacent street, which held the butcher.

As they started going _down_ the street, Elijah finally responded, "The guards don't exactly like me, considering the circumstances. I was intending on bringing you right to the house, but we've had to make a few detours."

Horace went silent at that, but glanced over his shoulder. A few townspeople glanced at him, down at his sword, and then back up at him, but didn't approach or say anything. Seeing two guards turn the corner further down, he turned back around. "Couldn't townspeople just report you?"

Eli shrugged, glanced over his shoulder, and turned towards another alley on the other side of the street. Horace followed, waiting for a reply. "Well, most citizens were former Araluens, so why would they want to report someone supporting the reinstatement of the Araluen monarchy? Plus, most people here knew the former local Ranger, as he was actually here a lot. Practically lived in a hunting cabin, only he had to go back and forth to the fief castle, and on jobs."

"Was?" Horace looked behind them, seeing the guards pass by the alley without a second glance. "What happened to him?"

Instead of turning down the way, Eli continued walking straight, right up to the front door of a small, one story house. "He died," he murmured, as he pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket. He quickly flipped through them, found the right one, and slipped it into the lock. There was a _click_ , and he pushed the door open. "Room on the right, he's waiting." Eli motioned for Horace to go ahead of him. Inside was normal: fireplace near the back, a kitchen next to it, there was a table right when they walked in, with a small couch against the far wall. There was a room on one side, the main room in which they stood, and the one that Elijah had motioned to. "I'll wait out here."

Horace glanced warily between Eli and the closed door.

Grinning, the Resistance member shrugged. "He's a friend, don't worry."

He moved towards the door, and took the door handle in his hand. Ideas of who could be behind the door flashed through his head as he opened it, and as the door opened, he came to the only logical conclusion.

In the room, a bed was partitioned at the far side, and near a window was a small writing desk. A short man stood staring out the window, watching a trio of guards pass by the window. He held something that looked like a rock in his hand, tossing it up and down. It was smooth, round and black, with something etched into it.

When he stepped into the room, Will caught the rock one last time, and turned to face him.

There was something different about him. A shadow over his once cheerful face, a haunted look in his once amused eyes. He held himself differently, more lanky rather than relaxed. You wouldn't think there'd be a difference, but there was. While it was Will Treaty who stood before him, it wasn't the same one that had left.

"Horace. Welcome back."


	3. The Exicusea Empire

**(A/N): Tell me what you think! Thank you for those who have commented and favorited, it means a lot!**

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The door shut quietly behind him, and Horace stood there staring for a while. Since the last time Horace had seen Will, the Ranger guarding Horace's back as he directed the other knights to the boat, he hadn't exactly believed that he'd be seeing him ever again. Yet here he was, alive and standing in front of him. There were differences, of course, nearly five years had passed, but not so much that he was a different person entirely.

As he stood there absorbing that Will wasn't dead, the Ranger walked back to the desk, and placed a smooth round stone on some papers. When he turned back, that's when his clothes registered with the knight. Will wasn't wearing the standard Ranger clothes – what he was wearing, however, was a strange medley of them. His shirt was a plain white linen shirt, the ties at his collar cut off at the V. He wore normal black trousers, but they were tucked into knee-high leather riding boots, which were died black to match the pants. The jacket that was thrown over the shirt, however, is what made Horace pause for another minute.

It was standard brown leather, undyed. It was obviously old, creased to fit Will's body perfectly, conforming to him. Sewn into it, over the right shoulder, was the cloth of what seemed to be a Ranger cloak. The placement reminisced of a spaulder, the armor that would be placed over the shoulder, and went all the way down the arm. When Will had turned around to place the rock on the desk, he noticed that the Ranger cloak material also spread across the back. It seemed that only the left arm and shoulder, and the front sides, were of the unaltered leather.

"Ah-uhm, W-Will?" Horace glanced back towards the door, suddenly unsure. Looking back to him, Horace then registered another difference: Will's hair was longer, tied behind his head with strands falling out to make it seem like his hair was shorter. "Yo-you're alive," Horace finished bluntly.

Will raised an eyebrow, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, which hung low enough to conceal any weapons that may have been buckled there. It could have probably hidden a short sword, if need be, as it hung nearly to his knees. Suddenly, Horace didn't feel _safe,_ which was an odd feeling, one he never thought he'd feel with Will. Sighing, the Ranger turned back to the window, and said as a matter of factly: "Unfortunately."

Horace flinched, surprised to hear the casualness in his voice when he spoke. Will turned back to him, a tired but curious light in his eyes. Dimmer than what it had been, but there all the same.

"What do you know of what happened here?" He murmured as he eyed Horace up and down, studying him.

Frowning, Horace responded: "That whoever took over started calling themselves an empire. That they're still after small bands of rebels, which seem to be based here, but for some odd reason they can't actually _find_ you. That's it really, they don't let much get out. Apparently, they didn't want the fact that they couldn't find you to get out, but people have escaped, spreading rumors and other small things about them."

Motioning for him to come closer, Will nodded. Horace hesitated, but moved to Will's side at the window. Without turning to see, Will motioned outside, to where a small group of men wearing the colors of the empire walked by. "Exicusea. Literally means "empire" in their native language."

"You are _not_ serious," Horace laughed.

A wry smile on his lips, Will glanced towards him, "Completely." He continued to look out the window, studying those who passed. "They're from the east. Way east, possibly further than Nihon-Ja," he whispered, although why he whispered, Horace didn't know. "But north. So they're like Skandians, but eastern. Their language is easy to decipher, not much different from standard Gallican, if you can believe that."

When he paused, Horace voiced a question: "Why did they come here?"

Will shrugged, "They wanted different land. They wanted a challenge. They wanted to spread their _exicusea._ Actually, I don't know. That was one thing I couldn't find out."

"What did you find out?"

Turning away from the window, Will snatched up the smooth stone off the desktop, and tossed it up into the air once more. "Not much. Any officials of Araluen were given the chance to surrender and swear fealty. If they didn't, they were executed. Any who resisted in any way would be hunted down and gutted like a fish. From what I could tell, they just wanted to take over, not kill anyone and everyone who lived here."

"So, what," Horace started, confused, "they wanted to kick Duncan off the throne?"

"Not specifically. From what I've witnessed of them, they probably would have let him rule if you hadn't fled. They would have just used him as a puppet, however, and he wouldn't have any actual control."

Horace watched Will toss the stone up and down a few more times before asking another question. "We've heard rumors . . ." Horace hesitated, unsure how he should word the next question. "Rumors that say . . . well, they took over by force, so it wouldn't make sense for them to be peaceful about this at all."

Before he was even finished, Will was shaking his head. "Technically, yes. If they were aiming for a peaceful takeover, they wouldn't have staged the siege of Araluen. _However_ , there's two different people who worked to take over this country," as he said that, he held up two fingers, and caught the stone with the other hand. He didn't throw it again. "The ghosts that took over Araluen are merciless. They don't care about people, or how many they kill. Their target was to secure Araluen, so that's what they did. That's when the second force came in, the one's willing to barter."

Frowning, Horace looked back out the window, just in time to see another patrol walk by. They didn't even glance in the window. "Two?"

"Two," Will said, nodding. "The ghosts have held Araluen, and still do," he grumbled, "the rest of the forces are officially _Exicusea._ There's no friction between the two, and they are obviously working together. But the ghosts stay in Araluen, and rarely leave." Will fell silent after that, following Horace's gaze out the window. "If you get captured, and they bring you to the old Castle Araluen," he paused, looking over to Horace, a hint of some hidden horror in his eyes, "don't expect to come back out the same. And if one of them does happen to exit the Araluen ruins, then we're in trouble.

Eyes wide from that ominous warning, Horace raised both his eyebrows, and glanced towards Will. He didn't look _that_ different.

Instead, he asked a different question: "Ruins? Araluen is in ruins?"

Grimly, Will nodded. "Not much better than Gorlan. The dungeons and first level are still mostly intact, but beyond that," he shrugged, "who knows? Of the few times I've seen it, I've seen parts of the ceiling collapsed, the few towers that are still standing can't be trusted to stand much longer, and very few of the windows are still intact. The ghosts weren't looking to preserve anything," he said, distain obvious in his voice. "They were just looking to destroy and kill. That's the difference between the ghosts and _exicusea_."

Horace opened his mouth, suddenly needing to get away from that topic, intending to ask about how the general patrolmen and _exicusea_ men were, but was interrupted from a knock at the door.

Elijah opened it seconds later, not bothering to wait for Will's call to open it. There was sweat at his brow, and his eyes were wide—something had alarmed him.

"Lija?" Will inquired, just has his hand moved the corner of his coat to the side, revealing a sheath with his old saxe knife in it. He rested his hand on the pommel, and Horace mimicked him, a hand landing on his sword.

Not bothering to explain, Elijah bluntly said: "Guards are searching houses, looking specifically for any Resistance members that they would recognize. They're on this street."

Will didn't miss a beat. "How far?"

Grimacing, Eli quickly responded, "They're at Tom's right now. They criss-cross the street, so we have about—"

"Five houses before they knock at this one?" Will finished. Nodding, the taller man glanced back to the door, as if expecting the knock at that minute. Will glanced out the window in the bedroom, thinking.

"Well?" Horace said after a few seconds of silence. "What do we do?" He looked to Will, the question repeated in his eyes.

"They wouldn't recognize you, Horace," Will murmured, looked down to the ground. "You can leave and they wouldn't question you. Go know, while you can."

"What about you two?" He said instead, looking to Elijah and back to his old friend. "Would they recognize you?"

That's when Eli spoke up, a sad smile on his face. "Unfortunately, Will is the only person they have an accurate description of. They have a vague description of me, but it's basically just saying 'tall guy with dark skin and hair'."

"But it would still be enough to be arrested, if found with him," Horace continued, pointing at Will beside him. Elijah nodded affirmation, and looked to Will.

Will shrugged, when he noticed that both of them had turned to look at him. "Back door?" He suggested.

That's when the knock came. The two Resistance members eyed each other, and glanced to the door.

Elijah nodded. "Back door," he agreed.


	4. Old Friends and Enemies

**(A/N): Please review! I need feedback :'D**

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The three of them headed for the back door, Elijah leading, Horace in the middle, and Will bringing up the rear. At least, that was what Horace had thought.

As Eli arrived at a door that had previously been out of Horace's sight when he had walked in, the knight glanced behind him to see if Will was behind him. He walked so silently, almost a ghost himself, that sometimes Horace didn't exactly believe that the Resistance leader was there. And when he turned around to check, he discovered that Will actually _wasn't_ there.

"Eli." Horace halted, eyes quickly going over the room. The knock was repeated at the door, and another guard's shadow appeared in the window. Luckily, the curtains were drawn. But Will was nowhere to be seen.

Eli didn't pause until another small key from his ring went into the lock for the back door. "Hmm?" he said, turning his head to look to Horace. His eyes landed on the knight, but then seemed to register that he was the only person there, and flicked around the room. He cursed, then said, "Where the hell did he go?" He didn't sound surprised, just exasperated. He took another second looking around the room, before turning back to the door.

He didn't pause, despite their missing companion, pushing the door open, and glancing down both ends of the alley, before stepping out. Horace followed, taking one last look into the house, hoping to see Will following after him. But, of course, he wasn't. Turning back to Elijah, the knight asked, "Does he do that often?" Before the invasion, Will would sometimes use his Ranger training to ditch Horace, but never had he thought that his friend would abandon him in trouble.

They moved down the alley, Eli shutting the door behind Horace, and locking it once more before leaving. Eli seemed to ignore the question Horace had voiced, moving in the direction of the harbor. "What about Will?" Horace hurried after the man, suddenly unsure what the hell he'd gotten himself into. He knew he was coming to stir up a revolution, but who exactly did he deem as his allies?

"We leave him," Eli answered simply, not even looking back.

"But I thought he was the one they would recognize?" Horace fell in line with him, taking his hand off his sword where it had instinctively fallen. That could draw suspicion to them, and then it wouldn't be too much until they would possibly connect Elijah with their description. "Shouldn't he be leaving? Getting away from them?"

Scoffing, the resistance member glanced wryly to Horace. "He is leaving, genius. He's just not leaving with us. Together, they would connect him with me, and they would arrest you on suspicion. It's better that he split up with us."

Horace frowned, "But where is he going?"

"That," Eli said reluctantly, turning a corner onto the main street, "is why I am mad at that asshole." Looking down the way, back towards the house, they could see a few guards questioning people on the street, motioning towards the house they had just vacated. The two of them went the opposite way, walking away from the house. "He usually tells me where to meet him later. Usually," Eli motioned into another alley on the other side, and they walked through it, this time walking all the way down it, instead of turning into a street by-pass, and onto the adjacent street with the butcher. "when he doesn't tell me where he's heading, it's because he's going to do something illegal."

"HEY!" Someone yelled behind them. Eli and Horace glanced over their shoulders simultaneously, only to see the two guards chasing them down. And they were running fast, considering the armor they were wearing.

"I seriously hate living in towns," Eli cursed, and grabbed Horace's arm, dragging him towards—a wall? No, Eli dived to the side at the last moment, and slipped into a warehouse, dragging Horace behind him. The knight found that he didn't much care for being dragged around, especially by someone who seemed to be running much faster than him. He wasn't wearing armor or anything, just a light leather chest piece. But Eli was sprinting ahead of him, Horace stumbling behind him.

He still stumbled as Eli's long legs bore them through the warehouse, weaving in and out of the boxes and crates and wrapped parcels. It seemed they were taking some sort of shortcut, to wherever they were headed. Cutting through the building probably cut their run in half, but many things were in their way. From the amount of weaving they did, Horace was sure that it would have been shorter to go through the town. Behind them, they could hear the two guards stumbling over things that Horace had bumped into, or cursing, trying to figure out which way their quarry had gone.

As the sea scent in the air grew stronger, Horace and Eli came upon a set of large doors. Eli pushed through them, letting go of Horace. Together, they ran out onto the harbor.

And right into a group of _exicusea_ soldiers.

"Eli? What the hell are you doin' in there, ya crazy—" one soldier stepped forward, apparently recognizing the resistance member. For what he was?

"Silas!" Eli's demeanor changed drastically, going from run-for-your-life scared, to I-might-survive-this relief. He widened his arms, but didn't embrace the soldier. Compared to the other tan soldiers, Silas was _black_. Only another soldier was as dark as Silas, a woman, who seemed to tower over even Silas, who towered over both Horace and Eli. The knight had to crane his neck upwards to see her face, and even then—she tipped her head down, and stared at him. Her glance was cold, ice blue eyes. Horace looked away, back to Silas and his wide smile.

"What have you been doing, Eli? Why are you running through port storage places?" Silas put his hands on his hips, and seemed to fall into the casual conversation easily. The woman behind him turned to the other soldiers, who were all staring at the group of them, and waved them off. She said something in a language Horace didn't recognize, and, after a small hesitation, the group wandered off.

"Oh, you know," Eli said, smiling, "just playing a game of tag." He motioned to Horace beside him, "And this is the new player, Horace. He's on our side, Barton's old friend."

Silas nodded to Horace, a look of respect in the big man's eyes. "Well, it was good to see you again, Eli. And nice to meet you, Sir Horace. But I have to go. Tell Barton I said to get his damn life together."

Eli raised his hand, waving to them as the two soldiers walked away down the harbor.

"Who's the woman?" Horace gulped, still catching his breath. Eli grabbed his shoulder, and dragged him in the opposite direction. They quickly faded into the crowd of fishers, leaving the guards who had been chasing them behind.

"Silas' daughter, Hippolyta."

"Who are they?" Horace asked, first following Elijah to the Skandian wolfship, then leading the other man to the boat.

"Oh, well," he started, grinning, "our little Resistance is fairly clever. Recruit people who might come in handy. Also, the _exicusea_ sometimes hires people; mercenaries, bounty hunters, and the like. They thought that they wouldn't have a bias in the situation, but we looked and found some who did."

As they approached the boat, the waiting Skandians stood from their seats, and began to silently prepare for a launch. Surprisingly, they spoke little, moving with a practiced air that made them seem like one machine.

"So they're Resistance?" Horace asked, making sure to keep his voice low.

Eli nodding and dropped onto the deck without a word to the Skandians, eliciting a strange, and partially wounded look from the skirl. The skirl said nothing, however, and waited until Horace had dropped onto the deck as well.

"Where off, general?" the large man asked. The skirl, Dorvan, had a thick blond beard, similar to Erak's, and had his hair up in a bun behind his helm.

Horace looked to Eli, not knowing that much about the circumstances around the rest of the country. He had only known that Briaz was a safe place to land, and was rumored to be the headquarters of the Resistance. Apparently, it wasn't that safe if you were found with the head of the apparent Resistance, nor did it help when he ran from the guards.

"Go south. About 5 kilometers down, there should be a place where a small creek comes into this strait, and above that should be the place we're looking for," Eli said, without hesitation.

When the Skandians moved to prepare the launch, Horace turned to Eli, a question in his eyes. Even though they had just met, when Eli finally noticed Horace's look, he read it in a second, and replied: "If Will isn't in that house, he's obviously not in town. As I said before, they have a full description of him. So, when he's not in town, we have a place to meet, so I'm not always wandering around, wondering where the hell our leader went to. If he's not there, then I have no clue where he could be."

Nodding, Horace settled back in the boat, standing at the same spot he had been earlier that day, before he had met Eli, and seen the new Will.

The New Will. Horace frowned. Will seemed so different from when they had last seen each other. He had been different than normal when he disappeared, being so bitter and angry about the official decision, that they hadn't talked much. Will didn't talk with anyone. So when he disappeared off the boat, everyone blamed themselves. But he was hiding something, Horace knew. Nearly five years in these circumstances could not have been easy on him. Why would the _Exicusea_ have an accurate description of him? Why was he wearing a leather coat made of the Ranger cloak material? Why did he seem to know more about the ghosts than the _exicusea?_

Horace looked to Eli, who stood beside him, studying the shore as they flew down strait. The Skandians had set off, leaving before the Port Authorities even realized they had docked. He studied the man that had apparently gotten to now Will better than his own brother. Horace wondered how this Elijah had gotten to know Will, how they had met. How had Silas known to call him 'Sir' Horace?

And why had they referred to Will as 'Barton', the name that he had traveled under when he had gone to Macindaw? It was a known alias of his.

Opening his mouth, Horace started to ask Eli how he and Will met, among the other questions in his mind. But the other man stood up straight suddenly, and pointed silently out to a cliff they were coming upon. Below it, a small stream ran into the strait they were riding through.

At the top of the cliff, Will stood at the edge, and someone Horace didn't recognize stood blocking his way back down. The knight recognized Will by the strange coat he wore, the back and a single arm being of the cloak material. The other man, however, was not wearing anything identifiable. He wasn't wearing the _exicusea_ colors, nor was he wearing what Horace remembered the ghosts wearing.

Yet Will stood at the edge of the cliff, hand on his saxe, with another knife in his opposite hand. His arm was shaking.

"Shit," Eli muttered, moving forward down the front of the ship. Horace followed, his eyes staying planted on Will. Was that man a threat? Who was he?

"Will!" Eli yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound.

The Ranger glanced down once, briefly. But in that brief glance, he must've seen their approaching wolfship, because he looked back to the approaching man once before sheathing his knife.

But then he dropped himself backwards off the cliff, without turning around. He landed with a splash before the tip of the boat, the water overtaking him straightaway. Horace heard Eli yell another curse, this one more vulgar, as he ran over to the other side of the boat.

A few Skandians converged around him, one with rope, and one with an inflated animal bladder that would act as some sort of buoy. They quickly tied the two together, and began searching around where Will had fallen, prepared to throw in the improvised life-saver.

Horace looked to the skirl, who had a doubtful look to his face. The current would have dragged Will underneath the ship, and it was no telling how long he could hold his breath, or if his fall had taken all of his breath out of him, or even knocked him out. Horace looked away from Dorvan, and looked straight up to the cliff they were now passing under.

The man that had been facing down Will stood at the edge, looking down on them.

He walked away, and Horace watched him go, feeling—knowing—that he would see him again before this was all over.


	5. Agreement Over Lies

Eventually, Will was fished out of the river. _Alive._

 _I don't know how the hell he does it,_ Horace thought, shaking his head as he watched Eli grab the collar of that strange leather jacket. Two Skandian's were on either side of him, and reached down to assist him in dragging Will aboard. _He should have died when he stayed in Araluen. He should have died when he jumped off that cliff and was pulled underneath the boat. How the hell has he lived through all of this? Not to mention everything that I_ don't _know about._

The Skandian on Elijah's left heaved, and over the side came Will's head. His hand grabbed the railing, and that's when Eli let go of the jacket and instead wrapped an arm underneath Will's armpit.

"You bastard," he heard Eli mutter, "how suicidal can you get?"

Will stumbled to his feet, roughly pushing Eli's hands away from him. Water dripped from his clothes, his hair. His boots were sopping wet, splashing water onto the dry deck. He was hunched over for a moment, looking down at his soaked clothes. Brushing his hair out of his eyes, he looked up, and over Horace's head.

Horace turned to study the cliff, already knowing that the man was long gone.

"I didn't try to kill myself, you dumbass," Will hissed, "What the hell else was I supposed to do? Staying would have been more suicidal then jumping." He slipped out of the jacket, tugging the sleeves of his shirt. He tossed it to the ground, and looked down on himself once more. They had left too fast for either Will or Eli to bring anything. They only had the clothes on their backs and whatever was on their belts.

In Will's case, that was a saxe knife at once side, and three thin and straight stilettos that were sheathed at his back, hidden behind a horizontal sheath that held another saxe.

"How would he have killed you?" Horace finally spoke, although he had a feeling that probably wasn't the best thing to say after seeing the weapons at Will's side. "I didn't see any weapons."

Instead of getting a response, to Horace's surprise, Will just swung his gaze his gaze to him but said nothing. The look in his eyes was unsettling, and cut him like a knife through butter.

Without saying anything more, the knight turned away from Will, and walked back to the tiller where Dorvan was directing the boat down the strait.

"Did 'ya find yer friend?" he asked, pushing the tiller away from his body. The Skandian didn't take his eyes off where the wolfship was headed.

"Not really sure he's my friend anymore, but yes. Two of your crew and Eli dragged him out a few minutes ago." In the time that he had been sailing with the Skandians, he hadn't gotten to know that many of them. But there's only so much isolation one could get on a boat, so Horace knew most of the men on sight. Dorvan was one of the few that he spent a good amount of time with. He and the Skandian Skirl had become good friends in the months that they had sailed together.

Dorvan had also been present in the battle against the Temujai. He was older, but not old enough to give up sailing. That being said, he had some knowledge of Horace's and Will's relationship.

Of their _former_ relationship.

For the next half hour, Horace sat against the edge of the stern, talking to Dorvan and looking across the wolfship to where Eli and Will sat at the bow. Will had taken off his boots and shirt, but kept his pants firmly on. Even though they were across the ship from each other, Horace could see old and new scars on his chest and back. He had turned darker in the sun, in the time they were separated, and the scar tissue was white against his skin.

Horace wondered exactly how the Resistance worked.

He had only known that there _was_ a Resistance. He didn't know if they just spoke out against the Exicusea rule, if they actively worked against them, or if they legitimately attacked and assassinated people who claimed allegiance with the empire.

The knight didn't know which one he would rather.

Will was dangerous. He wasn't the same. He'd changed, changed from whatever happened. Before, the old Will, he would have just fought against them when he could. He would have spoken out against them, he would have fought. But this one? Would he have lost all mercy, and gone after people who did nothing against him?

Exactly _how_ dangerous was this new version of his former friend?

"So, what's the decision?" Dorvan asked, after hearing Horace voice his concerns.

Horace frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Your King, my Oberjarl. They sent us to determine if taking back your country was possible. Depending on the outcome of this meeting, we were to continue on or retreat. I'm following your lead, general."

Pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger, Horace groaned. Then he just leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. "Those are my only choices?" His voice came through his hands muffled.

Dorvan grinned, and pulled the tiller back towards him. He allowed for his eyes to flick towards the Araluen man he'd come to know so well. "There's risks to both, general. If we retreat, we have to wait who knows how long to come back, and we don't even know if this is our only chance. But if we continue," that's where his face darkened, and his eyes swept over his men protectively. "If we continue, 'Orace, there's risks in that too. I'll lose men, no doubt. And as you just said, we don't know how reliable this Resistance is. We could be annihilated."

It was obvious what Dorvan was saying.

"You think we should go back," Horace whispered, letting his hands slid off his face.

The skirl nodded. "But I will follow your lead. If you think we should stay, we will stay." The Skandian paused for a moment. He turned his head fully, taking his eyes completely off the bow of the boat for the first time since Horace had gone back there. "But if you are the downfall of my men—if your decision kills them, then you and I might have a problem."

Horace was silent.

Dorvan swung his eyes back to the water.

"Well that just put an incredible amount of pressure on me," Horace murmured, staring ahead blankly. The sun was going down, darkening the sky.

"Well then don't screw it up," a new voice said.

Horace turned to the side to see Will. He wore an oversized Skandian-made undershirt, his still-wet pants, and bare feet. No longer tied up, his hair seemed unnaturally long. It was still plastered to his face, but it was brushed out of the way, and halfway dry from the exposure to sunlight. The knight had _not_ heard or seen his approach, which was odd, considering he would have been heading directly to them.

Deciding not to respond, Horace sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. So far, this day was not going well.

Will continued, despite not receiving an answer. "It's a fifty-fifty chance, Horace. If it makes you feel better," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, "you'll probably be dead as well."

Grimacing, Horace spread his hands in defeat. "So I either die, or I give up."

It was that moment that Dorvan decided to butt in. "Aye, but it could be worse."

"Thank you," Horace muttered, "thank you for that, Dorvan."

The three of them went silent.

After a moment, Will glanced to Horace, who saw the movement out of the corner of his eyes. The knight turned to face him, and an understanding seemed to pass between them. Will, who had been leaning up against the railing beside Horace, pushed off, and lead the way down the side of the boat. It looked as if he was going back to Elijah, who still stood up at the bow.

Horace exchanged a curious look with Dorvan, and followed after the supposed Resistance leader. His decision.

Elijah and Will were waiting for him when he got there. "So?" Eli asked.

Will turned a stone gaze on Horace, and tilted his head. "So?" he repeated.

They both stared at him, not saying anything more. Not even saying what they wanted. Horace hesitated, before he spread his hands in confusion, and repeated their mantra. "So?"

Sighing, Will crossed his arms, and leaned against the bulwark again. "Why did you come here? What decision do you have to make?"

That's when Horace realized that he never told Will his plan, nor why he was there. Quickly explaining it, Horace told Will and Elijah, apparently the big leaders in the Resistance, what his goal was. How Duncan had heard nothing from Araluen in the last year, and how he wanted to send someone to see if it was possible to retake it. How Erak offered to supply a wolfship, be it his own ship or a volunteer. Dorvan had volunteered. Horace stepped forward, knowing that Halt would be needed with Duncan. Gilan could go, obviously, but Crowley had sent him on an errand during the time that Duncan had decided to do something. As Dorvan, his crew, and Horace prepared to leave, Duncan and Erak had decided that if they could find a viable source of support, most likely from the rumored Resistance, that they could send a message, and they could start the retake then and there. Multiple other wolfships left the Hallosholm harbor with them, which were currently docked along the coast of Gallica. They would be signaled too, bringing in Araluen soldiers along with Skandians, as well as another messenger ship that would travel swiftly back to Hallosholm.

Will's face was deadpan through Horace's entire explanation, while Eli just listened, his face turned away. When Horace was finished, he spread his hands once more, looking between the two of them.

"That's the plan?" Will asked, eyes narrowing.

Horace nodded, meeting his suspicious look with wide eyes. He couldn't let it be known that he was also hiding a few other opportunities that they might get. He had decided not to speak of them, knowing that that kind of news could ruin everything. "You in?" he voiced instead. He had to know. If they weren't, they had to leave. Fast.

Nodding, Eli turned back to the two of them. He gently touched Will's arm, causing him to turn and meet Eli's eyes. A hidden message passed between them, not that Horace noticed it. He wasn't the best at reading looks.

Will shrugged, and looked back to meet Horace's eyes. "Why not?"


	6. When Everything Begins to Fall Apart

**(A/N): So to keep this chapter from being ridiculously long, I had to split it into two parts...so yea. This story might be longer than I was originally planning.**

* * *

After the first few sieges had gone well, people thought that Will had made a good decision.

Before they began to fight back, Will had schooled Horace on how to deal with any Resistance members. He already knew Silas and Hippolyta, but that didn't mean that he knew how to handle them. Apparently they weren't exactly a 'resistance' against the empire's rule, but just a group of people who knew how to fight, and liked doing it. Most of them usually had had high hopes for themselves, wanting to be knights, Rangers, couriers, and the like. The takeover had ended those hopes.

Horace had assumed that they were patriots for their old country, but when he voiced that thought to his former friend, Will had just burst out laughing—as if Horace's thought was the most ridiculous thing he had heard. But then Will explained it: "No, Horace, you aren't getting it," he had said, "Everyone you would have considered a 'patriot' has either been executed, run out, or turned to the other side by bribes or threats. Those people who are still here are either in hiding or being kept in Castle Araluen. Only a few are otherwise, not including myself."

Not including himself meant that he was one of the mentioned reasons, or not a patriot. But Horace figured that since he stayed in the first place, he couldn't mean that he himself wasn't a patriot.

Either way, that conversation put Horace in mind that Will wasn't a leader—he was just a well-known guy that plenty of people liked enough to fight for.

Despite these people only being pugnacious friends, they still fought during all of the sieges that they executed. Along with three extra ships of Skandians, Will knew how to contact around 250 fighters of varying skills. All came to his call for help, and all agreed to help take some castles for 'fun', as Will said to them.

Silas and Hippolyta were there, the two towering over everyone else and glistening black in the summer sun. Elijah ended up greeting a few others, all happy and excited like a puppy to see all of his friends—except when a blond man with pale skin walked into their camp.

Horace never discovered who that man was, but he had watched when Eli had directed him to where Will was, his top lip curling in disgust when the man's back was turned. The knight did, however, notice that before every siege, the man would disappear for a few hours, and then come back and tell Will something.

Depending on what that man said, Will would either join in the fight, or back out at the last second.

When Will first backed out, Silas had turned on the blond man, yelling something his native language. Will had to step between the huge man and the blond man, who stood a good half foot shorter than Will.

Elijah yelled something in Silas' language, which also drew Hippolyta's attention, bringing her into the argument.

In the end, Will ended up dragging Eli into the forest and telling the stranger to get the hell out of there before he started another argument.

"Who even is that man?" Horace had asked, stepping up beside Hippolyta after she had calmed down.

She'd turned to him, looking down to him with fury in her eyes. But seeing his confusion, her eyes softened, and she told him in her lightly accented voice: "He is someone no one here trusts, because we do not know him ourselves. Will," she said his name as if adding a 'h' after the 'w', "he says to trust that man. But how can we trust someone that we do not know? I believe that Will does not even know him himself—not one of us has ever heard his name spoken, not even El."

"El?" Horace wondered aloud.

"Who you call Eli-jah," Hippolyta smiled, "he has many nicknames. Most people here do. I have been called Hip, Hippy, Poly, TaTa—El gave me that one, and I gave him a broken nose in return." Horace laughed, not expecting that was where Eli had gotten his crooked nose. "Since then," she continued, "most people just call me Hippolyta. Or Queen, but that does not matter."

"Queen? Tell me about that one," Horace said with a smile.

"I was named after a legend," the tall woman said, "Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons—the Amazons were fierce fighting women. I assume you can figure everything else from that."

Horace laughed, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "It suits you." Not knowing what else to say, Horace changed the subject: "What about Will? He have any nicknames worth mentioning?"

She paused, considering the question. "He has a few, but none have stuck. There is a woman from Nihon-Ja who calls him their word for butterfly—"

" _Chocho,"_ Horace supplied, smiling at that old nickname. "He got it from the Emperor."

Hippolyta nodded, "Most just call him Will, though. Sometimes Ranger, although after a while he said that he was no longer a Ranger, and was not one since he left a boat."

They went silent, watching as Will dragged Elijah back out of the forest, both looking upset. After releasing Eli's collar, Will turned back, and walked out of their camp. Horace wondered why Will no longer considered himself a Ranger, despite still wearing the colors. Now that he thought about it, Horace had not seen his oakleaf once since he had gotten back.

"You, though, I think people will have fun with," Hippolyta murmured, watching Eli cross his arms as her father stepped forward to him, as well as a few other people.

"Why do you say that?" Horace responded. His wasn't a name that would be easily shortened.

"People like to have fun. And your name starts with Ho," she said, turning to him, "you will be known as nothing else to any of the. Except my father and I."

"Why?"

Hippolyta touched her throat, where a golden necklace hung below her neckline. "Because Will has told us of your history. He used to speak often of his old life, or at least his family. Some of us have children, and the little ones liked to hear stories, and he was the only one who could provide them. Either way,"—she dropped her necklace, and looked back to Horace—"He spoke of your lesser known title. The Sunrise Warrior of Hibernia. Ra is the God of the Sun for my people. It is an honorable nickname, Ra."

After being nicknamed the Sun God Ra, Horace had excused himself from Hippolyta's presense, and gone to confront Eli, knowing that he wouldn't be able to find Will in the forest. Even without his cloak, Will wouldn't be found unless he wanted to. And at that moment, it was obvious he wanted to be left alone.

* * *

Horace looked up at the castle he once called home. Redmont hadn't changed much since he had been forced to leave, but there was one difference that made his blood freeze.

Wensley had been razed.

Where buildings had once been standing for decades, dead grass covered the area. Bile rose in his throat, just thinking of how much was lost. How many _lives_ were buried under that dead field, how many hopes and dreams? _How many had I known?_ Horace asked himself, wanting to crawl backwards and run back to where they had been staying. Another castle, with another field just like this. Only, then, he hadn't realized what that field had symbolized.

 _I had known all of them,_ he knew. _Some were family. I had grown up with some. Loved some._

Although he had previously known the spot next to him to be empty, when he turned and saw Will standing there with Eli and Silas, he didn't start.

Eli had a large cut running down from his collar bone, across his chest, and Horace could see where the sword had initiated contact. Silas, thick and huge like the Skandians waiting behind them, had a large battleaxe hanging at his side—double bladed.

He had taken castles before. Why was this one different?

"Because this one was once home," Will whispered, a tired look in his eyes as he, too, gazed at the old castle. Horace didn't know if Will was answering his question, having accidently spoke it aloud, or if he was answering his own question, not realizing he had spoken it. No one said anything, not Silas or Eli, nor Horace, no matter how spooked he felt. Once more, Will spoke aloud, although this time he meant to be heard: "Let's go."

Redmont was built as a triangle, so it would be easily defended compared to the standard square built castle. Including that, Redmont was built out of iron ore, which gave it its name of "Redmont". They didn't know who held the castle, nor how many, but with the multiple Skandian crews as well as the 200 plus skilled fighters Will had called on, it wasn't _too_ hard. The enemy weren't expecting anyone to siege castles, which was how they had taken the others so easily. They knew that the so-called 'Resistance' was big, but that only one or two actually knew the standard siege protocol. One couldn't just _attack,_ they needed to know what was suicidal and what wasn't.

They hadn't expected for an Araluen knight to return. They thought they had gotten all of them.

It was sad—how fast the legendary Redmont Castle fell. The home of the legendary Ranger Halt, and where he had trained his two apprentices Gilan and Will. Where the Oakleaf Knight originated from, where he had learned how to fight. Where the honorable and just Baron Arald had ruled for decades, his beautiful and smart wife, Lady Sandra, at his side.

The thing with sieging castles—the thing with anything—is that it was only as good as the people operating it. A sword was only as good as the man or woman who wielded it. A bow only as accurate as the person who aimed it. A castle only as strong as the people who manned it. It was Macindaw all over again, to Horace. Macindaw—one of the most formidable forts in all of Araluen, and it fell to a clever Ranger who had a single Skandian crew who just wanted to go home and a mad scientist with a gentle heart. All because it was manned by people who didn't know the difference between fork and spoon.

The only difference between the siege of Redmont and the siege of Macindaw was Will. Will disappeared the moment they got inside the gate, heading towards the keep instead of helping flush all the defenders out, like he had done other times. He fought with his dual saxe knives, the large knives cutting savagely into anyone who got into his path. Horace didn't see him pick up a bow once, despite it once being one of his best weapons.

Only a few Exicusea men manned Redmont, which was a surprise considering the fact that if Araluen ever fell, it was standard protocol for the Royal Family to flee to Redmont. If the leaders of the Exicusea Empire weren't there, where else would they have gone? Caraway? Norgate? Whitby?

Horace stomped up the steps of the keep, still searching for Will. Silas had followed after Will, so Horace knew he wasn't alone, but that didn't explain where the hell they were. The last of the men had either fallen or surrendered, so it wasn't as if they could still be fighting someone. Passing room after room, Horace glanced inside the rooms with open doors, and kicked down the ones that were closed. Most were covered in dust, still the same after the occupants had been forced to leave years ago. Others had obviously been occupied. Belongings scattered a few choice rooms, drawings of lives past pinned up in corners or on desks dust free. Near the top, Horace found what had once been Arald's old office and antechamber. Nothing had been touched, weirdly enough, but had a fine blanket of dust instead.

He continued on to Arald and Sandra's private chambers.

The door stood cracked open, a sliver of light pouring out into the dim and dust filled corridor that he wandered through. The only light source was through the moth eaten curtains through open doors of personal rooms. Horace could see the dust float through the air, stirred as he walked through the long undisturbed hallway.

Three sets of footprints preceded him up, having already cleared spots of the dust on the steps.

Eli was still in the courtyard, as well as Hippolyta and any other of their fighters. Only Silas had accompanied Will up the keep, from what he had seen.

But he didn't know if someone didn't follow them.

Horace lightly pushed the door open, sword bare in his hands. Raising it, Horace prepared for what he might see.

Two bodies. One man.

"Will," Horace said, his voice cracking. He couldn't see clearly which bodies were which, and his mind would only focus on the worse—Will and Silas were dead, and the one who crouched beside their bodies was their murderer.

Raising his sword, Horace stepped completely into the room. Surprisingly, Horace recognized all three—Will, Silas, and the blond man.

"I'm fine," his friend breathed, slowly getting to his feet. Will's legs hitched, as if they couldn't bear his weight. Horace rushed to him, dropping his sword without a second thought—he didn't see a stranger he barely knew with a familiar face, but an old friend who was in need of help.

Horace caught him just before his knees would have slammed back into the wood floor. The cracked and boarded up window behind him let in enough light for Horace to see his face.

It wasn't the face he was used to seeing, ever.

It wasn't what Will used to look like—happy, excited, always amused by something. Smart, a mischievous cleverness hidden behind bright and welcoming eyes.

It wasn't what Will was when Horace had seen him again—closed off, tired, always annoyed by something. Still smart, but his mischievous cleverness was no longer hidden. Instead, it had been paraded on his face in a cocky manner—but somehow he had never _seemed_ cocky.

Instead, this time, it was horrified. Terrified. Like his primal instinct of fight or flight had been activated, and jammed on flight. It was like he was paralyzed from fear, because his body was locked up, despite the blood that flowed down his chest.

"You're bleeding," Horace whispered, helping Will down to the floor once more.

"No shit," Will snapped, his anger flooding back. "Let go of me." Will wrenched his arm out of Horace's grip, and stumbled to his feet once more, blood splattered on the ground around him. This time, he steadied himself on the wall. When Horace reached for him once more, Will slapped his hand away, anger once more flooding past his obvious exhaustion. "I'm _fine,_ " he snarled again, rubbing at an area on his neck. When his sleeve came away a deep red, Horace knew that he had been cut there. His entire front was soaked with blood, and where he had been rubbing at the cut was soaked as well.

"Will, you need medical attention, a cut on your throat is not a good thing—" Horace tried again, seeing if he could reason with him.

Will ignored him instead, motioning towards the bodies. "See if they're alive."

Horace didn't move. "They're dead," he said with certainty. In the time that he'd been in the room, neither had taken a single breath, and there was too much blood on the ground for either of them to be alive. And Will was just adding to it.

"I _said_ , _"_ Will snapped, _"_ see if they're _alive."_

Not wanting to anger him more, Horace bent down, and put his hands to Silas' throat. Waiting, Horace leaned over, and put his ear to his mouth. Horace waited a full minute for a pulse, for a breath, but none came. When he pulled away, shaking his head, Horace saw Silas' face—and saw Hippolyta. This was her father. Dead at his feet.

"What happened here?" Horace asked, moving back towards the window. While waiting for Will to respond, the knight reached up, and gripped the moth eaten curtains. Without a second thought, he tore them down, ripping the seams and taking down the bar that held them up in the first place. It clattered to the ground behind Will.

"He attacked us," Will murmured, looking at the blond man on the floor beside Silas. "Silas saw him before I did, I was . . . distracted. Someone else was here, and I was focused on him. Silas must've blocked him."

After laying the cloth over Silas, and moving onto the next man, Horace paused. "Someone else?"

"They're gone." Will looked down to the metal rod that had fallen down, avoiding eye contact.

"Both are dead, Will," Horace murmured, pulling his hands from the blond man's throat. "Can I please take you to get some help?"

Will paused, looking at Horace. There was a strange look on his face—a mixture of curiosity and confusion. It was a moment, after looking between the dead body of Silas and the blond man he seemingly trusted, before he nodded, and accepted Horace's hand for help down the stairs.


	7. Arguments and Arrivals

Even though Will had accepted Horace's hand, and his help down from the top of the Keep, apparently he wasn't planning on accepting any _medical_ help.

Will pulled away from the healer's hands, mistrust in his eyes. Instead, he kept his own hand pressed against the wound, bloodstained cloth discarded. "Don't touch me," Will growled, getting to his feet.

Behind him, Horace winced, seeing the blood once more gush down his friend's throat and front. "Will, they need to—"

" _They_ can wait." Taking another cloth from a pile that the healer had, Will mopped the excess blood from his throat, steering clear of the actual wound. By then, the blood was beginning to clot, so it would be better to not interrupt the process by wiping it. Will walked towards the opening in the tent, not bothering to change his clothes from the blood-stained garb he wore for the siege. The light leather chest piece he wore wasn't even marred, but the white shirt he wore underneath, of what little could be seen, was now red. His jacket, which, except for when Will had jumped off the cliff and into the strait, Horace hadn't seen him take off.

"But _you_ can't," Horace said, following after him. Pushing through the tent flaps after him, Horace groaned inwardly. Why was Will being so difficult? And where was Eli?

"ELI!" Will yelled, calling over the other man from where he stood with a group of Resistance members. Eli turned, saw Will marching towards him, and his eyes went wide. The people with him retreated, falling back into the larger group of fighters that were resting in the courtyard near the front gate of Redmont. Other people had been sent to collect their things, and other people to watch the enemy prisoners.

Only one person still stood with Eli by the time Will, with Horace trailing, approached. Hippolyta.

She stepped in front of Eli, a worried look in her eyes. "Will," she said desperately, her emotions thickening her accent, "my father, I can't find him. We always meet after a battle, Will, but I haven't seen him since we started." As she spoke, Eli looked up to her, her worry mirrored in his eyes.

Horace didn't speak a word, knowing that the upcoming news wouldn't be appreciated from him. Not that she didn't know him—but because she wasn't familiar with him. He was an outsider, not one of the resistance culture.

His eyes still dark, still blood covered, Will craned his neck so he could clearly see her face. "I'm sorry," was all he said.

Eli looked down to the ground, his eyes closing.

Hippolyta didn't move, however. "How? How did it happen?"

Voice emotionless, Will quickly recounted what had happened—How he had seen someone familiar, and followed. Silas had deigned to follow him, and quickly caught up. At the top of the Keep, they ran into the blond man. While arguing with him, Will noticed someone push their way through some shutters across the room. Both Will and Silas were distracted by him, and that was when the blond man struck, a dagger sliding through Silas' back. Silas' axe swung in an arc, taking the blond stranger in the forehead. Will handled the other man, resulting in the cut in his neck.

Silently, Hippolyta nodded. Will reached into his pocket, pulling something that looked slightly familiar. A necklace with a gold chain, similar to the one around Hippolyta's neck. He handed it over, and then motioned towards the healer's tent. "His body is in there."

Horace watched with sympathy as Hippolyta pushed past them, and headed for the healer's tent, clutching her father's necklace.

Will's voice startled Horace out of his focus. "You know, Horace, I won't stop them from leaving."

"What?" Horace turned back to Will, confused. "I thought—"

"Whatever you thought," he snapped, "you thought wrong, Horace. I was asking them for a favor. Not for their lives," Will motioned to where Hippolyta was pushing through the tent flaps of the healer's tent. "If she leaves because her father was murdered on my behalf, I'm not stopping her. It was Silas' choice to come, it was Hippolyta's choice to follow. It was Silas' choice to follow me up the Keep stairs."

"But what about stopping the Exicusea? I thought that was why everyone followed you in the first place, Will. To stop them, to use their skills—"

"To _practice_ , Horace. They aren't 'heroes' or 'patriots', you know that. Some are just bloodthirsty criminals that don't appreciate the empire breathing down their necks," Will threw the bloody cloth to the ground. It made a strange slapping sound as it hit, causing some loose dust to float up into the air. "If they see that people are dying because of this, they'll run. I thought you figured that out, with how much you were mingling with them while coming from Briaz to here."

"Will," Eli murmured, his face uncomfortable. "Don't get mad at him for this, it was an accident—"

Scoffing, Will turned on Elijah, his eyes narrowing. "We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him, Eli. I realize I agreed to it, but I won't be forcing people to fight for him."

"That's not what I'm asking," Horace stepped up beside Will, his hand landing naturally on his shoulder. It was an old habit, so Horace didn't notice it at first. But the moment his hand made contact with Will's shoulder, he knew never to let himself do it with Will ever again. Angrily, the Resistance leader flinched, and roughly pulled his shoulder away from Horace's touch. At the same time, his leg, nearest to Horace, swept under Horace's legs, sending the knight to the ground.

Slamming to the cobblestones, Horace's breath was pushed out of his lungs. Stunned for a moment, Horace stayed on the ground, groaning. He heard Eli say something to Will, and Will reply angrily. Replying in like, Elijah took a step closer to Will, and continued to argue as Horace slowly got a hold of himself, and attempted to get to his feet. Slowly, their voices died down.

Someone offered a hand, and the knight took it without hesitation, not thinking of who it could be with Elijah and Will still vaguely arguing in the background.

"You okay there, Horace?" A familiar voice asked, a slight sliver of amusement adorning the sound.

"Yea, I think so," Horace mumbled, rubbing his head with closed eyes.

Another person snorted, and grumbled something besides the person who helped him up. Then the original voice laughed: "Oh, come on. Play nice now, little boy, I bet he didn't put himself on the ground."

"You know that's not what I meant, Gilan. I swear, you never listen to me anymore."

Horace's eyes opened at the mention of the name. In front of him stood two Rangers—one short and grumpy, his arms crossed before his chest, and the other tall and lanky, a sword hanging comfortably from his side, and an easy smile upon his face.

"Halt. Gilan," Horace said hoarsely, his hand going to his throat. "I didn't realize you would be here so soon."

"Well—" Gilan started, but was interrupted when Will started to yell.

"HORACE GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE," it came, practically echoing off the stones of Redmont's walls. Horace turned to see where it was coming from, not realizing that they had moved away. Will and Eli stood by the wall, accompanied by a blond woman in a white dress.

"Oh, by the way, we brought Alyss," Halt muttered from behind him.

"Let's get over there before he decides to tear down Redmont instead of stay here." Horace dropped his hand, and began to cross the yard to get to where Will stood looking at his wife.

His wife.

When was the last time Will had seen her? Had spoken to her? He hadn't helped people to the boat, but instead stayed back to be sure everyone that was needed on the boat was there. Then he had followed the tracks alone, and met up with Horace's end party and helped defend until the boat was ready to cast off. Alyss was below decks, and Will hadn't even been on the boat for a full five minutes before he jumped.

The look on his face, while he eyed Alyss, who stood there waiting patiently for Horace, Halt, and Gilan to approach, was one of paralyzed _fear._ _Apprehension._

"What are _they_ doing here," Will hissed, motioning around him. Specifically, he pointed to Halt and Gilan, who stood on either side of Horace.

"I told you," Horace said, sighing, knowing this would start another argument, "the Skandians were coming right away, while after I sent a letter to Duncan he would send some Araluen soldiers as well."

"You didn't say _Rangers_ ," he snapped, crossing his arms and leaning up against the wall. "And you certainly didn't say _her."_ This time, he pointed to Alyss, while his eyes pointedly kept away from her.

Alyss stepped up to the plate, and took Will's extended hand into her's, which surprised him and caused him to flinch and pull his hand away. The courier sighed, and put her hands on her hips. "I'm here because Horace reported that you said the Exicusea could be negotiated with."

Will snorted, and shook his head. "Seriously?" he looked to Horace, disbelief in his eyes. "You don't listen to me at all, do you?"

Confused, Horace only narrowed his eyes.

"The Exicusea aren't the enemy here," Will said anyway, standing up from where he leaned. He took a step closer to Horace, so they were practically nose to nose. "They just hold the castles, and that's it. They don't care about _holding_ them, or even fighting against anyone who could take them, mainly because they don't expect anyone to try."

"Then who's the enemy?" Halt said, his eyes watching Will like a hawk.

"Those who hold Castle Araluen," Will murmured, slowly turning his head to look to Halt.

Horace explained the answer to Halt, knowing Will wouldn't the moment he turned away. "The ghosts, from when we were retreating." Halt nodded his understanding.

"Why are you so against us being here, Will?" Halt asked, his gaze still locked on Will. Even though he had moved away, and now stood on the other side of Eli, Will's gaze was locked on Halt as well.

"Because you'll inhibit their," he motioned towards the group of guffawing resistance people, as well as the small healer's tent where Hippolyta was sitting outside of, looking blankly into her lap, "work. They don't exactly follow most rules that you would uphold."

Everyone went silent—Will standing beside Eli, his shoulders hunched over and a grumpy look on his face, and Eli a panicked and nervous look on his face at being in the middle of this. Alyss standing, her hands crossed against her chest with an annoyed expression on her face, and Gilan standing with an annoyed look on his face. Horace was the same as Gilan, annoyed, while Halt just looked suspicious. They stood in a half circle, all facing another expect for Alyss.

"So," Elijah started nervously, "this is Alyss? You two were married, right?" He pointed to Will, and crossed that arm with the other to point at Alyss.

"Yes," Alyss nodded, smiling at Eli, "we've been married for a good six years, although we haven't been near each other for five of them."

Eli nodded solemnly, his slight smile returning, "Oh really?" he turned to Will, "but I thought we were married Will." He said it with a pout, sticking his bottom lip out.

"Eli, where the hell did you get—"

"Same sex marriage has never been legal in Araluen . . ." Gilan said, trailing off when Will turned to glare daggers at him.

"Who says I'm a guy," Eli said, his smile widening.

Everyone paused for a moment, their eyes going between Will and Elijah.

Until Will once more stood from his place, and started to walk away.

"Will, it was a joke!" Eli called, "get back here!" Will continued to walk, and it was then that everyone there realized that he was walking towards the front gate. "Will! Where are you going!" Eli tried once more.

Without turning around, Will yelled back: "For a walk the length of the rest of my life!"

"So, what, a decade, two?"

"A week." At that, Will turned the corner around the gate, and was gone.

Elijah pursed his lips, studying the blood drops that Will had been trailing around. "Well that didn't go as planned," he muttered, looking up to study the Araluens.


	8. Elijah Callaghan

**(A/N): Lots of people have been saying that they really liked Eli! I'm so happy, because I wasn't sure how people would like an OC in a bigger part. Either way, here's a chapter _all_ about him! Enjoy~**

 **BEFORE YOU READ!: This chapter also includes a few sensitive topics? Nothing graphic, but I just thought I should warn...**

* * *

Crossing his arms, Horace turned to stare blankly at Eli with pursed lips. It took a moment before he noticed, but when he did, his only reaction was to grin sheepishly.

"I have to admit, sometimes Will doesn't appreciate my attempt at humor." He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"That was a lame attempt," Gilan muttered under his breath, moving behind Horace.

"It also wasn't helpful," Horace sighed, running his hands through his hair. He noticed a while back that he had picked up the habit after Will had left. Knowing it was an old habit of his friend's, it saddened him whenever he had caught himself doing it, because it reminded him of his friend—whom he presumed dead at the time.

"Look, you may not believe me," the man said with a smirk, "but he does actually appreciate my jokes every once and a while."

Halt raised an eyebrow to that. "Oh, really? Because the evidence points to the contrary."

"Okay, you've only been here for, what," Eli pointed out, seemingly trying to recover his shattered dignity, "ten minutes? Five? What do you know about my jokes?" He sniffed, raising his nose up with a mock frown. Horace rolled his eyes, brushing off debris from his clothes. It hadn't even been a few hours after the battle—he was getting tired.

Apparently, someone else was more tired than he was, however: "Can we please talk about something else other than some asshole's sense of humor," Alyss snapped from where she stood, "and another asshole's opinion of it?"

Horace's eyebrows raised, and he turned to face her. At first he couldn't believe what she said, not knowing her to be one who said things like that.

But then it occurred to him.

She was married to Will for a year before he left, and when they were finally reunited, he looked at her in fear, and left before saying anything straight to her face. He had even said that he hadn't wanted her there. She had reason to be angry, but it surprised him that she would take it out on someone she didn't know.

Eli's eyes went wide, and he in turn looked to Alyss in surprise. "I think I'll like you," he murmured to himself, out of earshot of Alyss who had turned away with her face burning.

Horace pushed Elijah lightly on the shoulder, and motioned him towards the tent, and where Hippolyta sat. "I'll deal with them," he said quietly, "I don't think this is the best time to introduce a new 'lover' to the wife."

* * *

After the Skandians cleared out the keep, a few people moved into the lower rooms. The returning Araluens took two rooms, one for Alyss and one for Halt and Gilan to share. Hippolyta took a room to herself, not wanting to sleep in her camping gear alone the first night of her father being gone. The healer insisted that the injured got rooms, so as to keep them from nature's workings.

Horace didn't want to be in a room that night, not after everything that he had seen the day before. Elijah was never one to sleep indoors, always finding an excuse to sleep outside in any type of weather. They shared a fire that night.

Sitting in front of the fire, Horace stared at his mug of coffee, not sure if his stomach could take it. Not that he felt queasy—he felt fine. He had seen worse than the day before, and knew he would continue to see worse. But every time he caught a whiff of the coffee, or every time he looked down on the mug, he'd immediately think of Will.

Wherever he was.

Eli sat beside him, staring into the fire with his hands clasped between his knees.

"Can I ask you a question?" Horace said, turning around and dumping the still-hot coffee onto the ground behind him. He would sleep on the other side that night, faced away from the coffee puddle.

"Oh no," Elijah murmured, a hand coming up to cover his eyes.

"Is that a yes or a no," the knight sighed, leaning forward towards the fire. His face got warm, and it almost felt as if his hair was singed, but he didn't lean back.

"Go ahead," Eli looked him over, watching him. "Not like I have a choice."

"What does that mean?" Horace said with a slight grin.

"It means that I'm stuck with you. All my stuff is right here."

Horace shrugged, and went silent for a moment, thinking about what he should say. He needed to ask—he needed to, if he wanted to survive this. But he couldn't think of how to form the question.

"Was that the question?" Elijah asked, confused, sliding down from the log to sit on the cobblestones of the Redmont courtyard. Leaning back, he put his feet up right to the fire, almost within the flames.

"No," Horace said, leaning back. His head rested on the log, his legs crosslegged in front of him. "Just . . . gimme a minute."

Eli fell silent, looking away into the night where the Resistance had literal bonfires lighting up the area. The Skandians had moved onto the remains of Wensley village, making their own circle of fires.

"What . . . what happened, what changed him?" Horace asked. He hadn't even started to say anything, hadn't even said his name, and the emotion flooded into his voice, cracking it. The knight swallowed hard, crossing his arms on his stomach. He refused to look at Eli, even as he felt the man's eyes on him. "What made him so different?"

It was silent. Until he heard a sigh, and then a ruffle of clothing. Eli said: "I assume you mean Will."

Horace didn't even bother to nod, staring up into the night sky. It was clear, and the constellations that he saw were still the same as when he was a child.

They reminded him of Will.

Everything reminded him of Will.

As he had been.

Before.

"Horace," Eli started, sitting up, "I . . . how do I say this . . . I know what you want to know. Why you want to know it. But the problem, Horace . . . is that I can't tell you."

" _What?_ " Horace snapped, incredulous. He started to sit up, anger rising.

"Let me explain," Eli said, holding up his hands. "Please, Horace, let me explain."

Horace turned to face Elijah, his eyes narrowed. "Better be a good explanation."

"It's simple," Eli said, getting up, looking at Horace warily. It was if he didn't expect his explanation to be worthy. "It's not my story to tell."

It wasn't.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Horace snapped, getting to his feet as well. He stood face-to-face with Elijah, who leaned back away from him with a sad and hurt look in his eyes. The knight opened his mouth once more to argue as to why he should know what had happened to his friend—and came up with none. Yes, he was friends with Will, and wanted to know if he was okay, but he really had no business forcing a story out of his companion. Especially one that seemed loyal. Loyal enough to deny an old friend the true story because it would be breaking something between them.

Angrily, Horace turned away, knowing he was in the wrong. Standing with his back to Eli, Horace ran both of his hands through his hair, not sure what to do.

Elijah shuffled his feet, and in a small voice, said: "Horace, I'm sorry. I would tell you, because it's something you should know. I honestly don't understand why Will hasn't told you yet, especially with how close we're getting to the end . . . but . . ."

"It's not your story to tell," Horace repeated, staring at the far off wall of Redmont. He had forgotten how large the courtyard was, he had been gone so long. Horace wondered how Will had felt, walking back beneath these walls and seeing everything in ruins. He had seemed indifferent—but he seemed to be hiding plenty of things nowadays.

Such as how he and Elijah met.

Frowning, Horace turned to take another look at Will's new friend. "How did you two meet?" Horace asked, looking at Eli. From his complexion and the slight accent he spoke with, he clearly wasn't from Araluen—possibly Celtica or Gallica, but somewhere further south. How did he end up fighting for an Araluen Resistance? "What's _your_ story, then?"

Eli smiled. "Now you're asking questions I can answer."

* * *

"As you probably guessed, I'm obviously not Araluen—" Horace snorted, but didn't interrupt as Eli started his story, a clearly pleased smile on his face, "—but I did come here with my family when I was younger. They thought we would have a better time here, Araluen being known as having fair chances for all genders and the like. A 'colored' family, as some people put it, with six daughters, didn't usually go far in my native country.

"And it didn't go far in Araluen either. My father wasn't the smartest man, and he spread his daughters out in different skills that they weren't actually skilled in. Being the youngest, I got shoved into manual labor at a nearby farm. Needless to say, they didn't like my temper, and kicked me out after the second day. My dad didn't appreciate my temper either, and determined himself to punish me. My mother walked in on that, and took me away from him. She also sent letters to my sisters to tell them what happened, and not to go back there.

"We never heard from them again. My sisters, that is. Somehow, my father had managed to get them all jobs—but he didn't tell my mother how. Apparently, he was told that they would be "mistresses", which he took as being married to nobles. He didn't understand that he essentially sold off his daughters to a prostitution ring. My mother heard that you could get arrested for that, so she sent a few guards to him, who arrested him. Never heard from him again."

Horace paused, "So were your sisters killed?"

"No," Eli shook his head, "well, actually, I don't know. I looked into it, later, and I heard that some women get it good and actually get married to nobles, but others don't end up so well."

"And your father was arrested."

"Yep. So it was just my mom and me. We did well for a while—I managed my temper and got work at another farm, and then a dressmaker's shop. They used me as a model for younger girls, and eventually I started to make dresses as well. My mom worked as a waitress for an inn, and then a cook.

"And then my mom got sick. I tried to help her as much as I can, but a little over a month later, she was dead. I couldn't even get her a proper burial; we were so poor at the time, I hadn't the coin to spare. They just did away with her body, and like that I was a child, barely fourteen, alone. No way in hell I was going to my father, whatever jail he was in, and I wasn't going to sell myself into sex slavery.

"And then some asshole tried to steal from me, picking my pockets. I ended up breaking his nose—he wasn't that good of a pickpocket. One of his friends came out of nowhere, kidnapped me. Took me into this group of bandits, where they raised me as their personal servant. I easily found out that they were easier on me if I submitted to them, so I purposely dressed scantily, and the next thing I knew I could ask something of anyone of them, and they would do it. I was a whore with command of an entire bandit group, as some of them put it. Soon enough they realized that I could use sexual appeal to get into people's pockets. And that started my career as a con-artist."

"Wait," Horace held up his hand, his face scrunched in confusion. "I—I don't understand—you said . . . you're . . ." His face grew red as he tried to find the words to express his question, although he wasn't even sure if he should be asking the question. "You're saying that . . . well," he paused again, covering his mouth with his hands. "You know what? Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"Let me guess," Eli said with a grin, "Things I've said confuses you? My parents only had six daughters? I worked as a dressmaker's model? I used my sex appeal and dressed scantily to get it easier and gain control of a bandit group?"

Horace nodded, his face red.

"Let me finish, Horace," Elijah scolded, grinning. "Either way, the old leader of our group fell for a trick by a larger, more powerful group. All of us were decimated. I escaped, started my own group. I didn't want to use sex appeal as my way of staying at the top, wasn't comfortable with it. So instead I used my temper to reign people in, breaking noses and bones with glee. I found it easier to do it with shorter hair, and men's clothing.

"Eventually, that changed to people actually seeing me as a guy. I didn't care. I've been called everything by everyone—she, he, they, it, whore, bastard, jackass, devil, good-for-nothing, you name it! So when people started actually seeing me as a guy, I shrugged my shoulders and went along with it.

"This was around the time that Exicusea took over, so things were crazy and people looking for illegal work were a lot easier to find than normal. A few years in, and the empire was breathing down our backs—so I wanted to get back at them. I overheard that they had a few high-profile prisoners from the former Araluen kingdom in the dungeons at Castle Araluen. _And_ I had just met someone who claimed to know chemicals and what explodes with what.

"I let her blow a hole in the wall."

Horace stared at Elijah with a dumbfounded face. Eli wasn't sure what he was confused at—his story, his gender, his claims, or blowing a hole in Castle Araluen.

Either way, he was done. Eli shrugged, clapping his hands together and startling Horace. "Well, the end!"

"What about Will?" Horace asked, too confused to ask any other question. "How did you meet?"

"I thought that was obvious," Elijah said, looking at Horace in amazement. Was he really that dim? He hadn't believed what Will had said about Horace when they had first met him in Briaz, especially with the skepticism he was greeted with. "Will was one of the prisoners."


	9. The Probability of Insanity

As Elijah told Horace a brief summary of his past to Horace, Will watched from the top of the keep. He had never left Redmont, never planned to. After seeing his family, the ones he thought he would never see again, he panicked. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Hearing Eli's attempt at making him comfortable with his lame joke made it worse, and he just had to get the hell out of there before he broke down.

Will ducked below the window sill, seeing Horace stand and turn partially towards the keep. Waiting a moment, he looked back over the ledge to see Eli and Horace in a heated discussion, Horace looking a tad uncomfortable. They were both standing, Eli having stood when Will had gone below the window.

It itched him to know what they were talking about. Their voices had grown quieter, so now he couldn't hear a word they said. Were they talking about him, or still debating Eli's origins?

Biting his lip, Will considered going down there, and apologizing for his earlier behavior. But what was he supposed to apologize for? Being scared? He knew that he had hurt all of those involved, and knew that he had to apologize eventually. So, maybe the question wasn't _what_ he should apologize for, but _how._

He moved away from the window, heading towards the door. Blood still stained the floor from where the bodies had been. Silas' body. The blond man's body. Will stepped over that blood, blocking out the memory as he did so. He barely thought as the memory erased itself, concentrating on moving through his setting. It wasn't easy to block the memories from incapacitating him, but after so long and doing it so often, it was just another skill he had learned to do. If it wasn't for the odd ability to forget difficult encounters, he would have been six feet down before the end of his first year. By the time he opened the door, and by the time he stepped out of the room, the memory was gone. He only recalled wanting the memory to be gone, but not what it had been. Something that had happened yesterday? During the siege of Redmont, maybe? He had started deleting his memories from his mind more and more often, forcing himself to forget things. It made things easier, made his life easier to live without every nightmare biting at his ankles.

But sometimes they broke through.

A familiar voice sounded behind Will. Chills ran up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck raise up. Pausing on the second step, Will turned partially, looking out of the corner of his eye for what he knew would be there.

Something stood within the doorway he had just vacated, a silhouette.

Gulping, Will turned back towards the stairs, ignoring the slight breeze he felt as whatever was behind him stepped closer, breathing on his neck.

Taking a step, he looked down to make sure he wouldn't fall, suddenly unsure in his own balance. The stairs seemed to jump from underneath him, swimming and jerking as he tried to make his way down. _Find the wall_ , Will thought, feeling the panic crawl up his throat. _Find the wall and lean on it._ He had to make his way down, knowing that he wouldn't get out of this unless he found someone else. He wouldn't survive alone. The only people who were still up were all the way in the courtyard, probably arguing over what gender Eli actually identified as.

The thing came up behind him as he took another step. A thin, cool hand touched his back, trailing from the back of his neck all the way down to his lower back. " _What're you gonna do, Mr. Treaty?"_ the voice breathed into his ear, the lips tickling the side of his face. " _Try and stop me."_

Suddenly, there were irons around his wrists, chafing them until they were red and raw. Jerking, hating the feeling, blood spurted from his wrists as he struggled to get out of them. The scarlet liquid rubbed against the iron, making the restraints somewhat slippery. _"Why're you trying to leave me, Treaty? I thought we had an understanding,"_ the second hand came up, brushing against his jawline from behind, _"I thought you promised me, Treaty. I didn't know you were someone to go against a promise."_

Will closed his eyes tightly, scrunching his face up. Where was Eli, who else could he go to that was closer?

The hand continued down, while the other slipped from his jaw and took a rough hold upon his throat. Will jerked, stumbling forward. He came close to falling down the steps, which would have possibly killed him, but his hand on the wall prevented that. His unchained hands, despite what he felt.

Feeling as the hand paused below his hips, the panic grew to too much. The hand on the back of his neck grew tight, feeling what he was about to do.

Tearing out of the person's grip, Will ignored the dizziness as he stumbled down the stairs. His breathing came short, not from running but from the desperation, needing to get away. Something red was on the steps, and Will was convinced that it was his blood from his chafed wrists. They still throbbed from where he had jerked against them.

It was blood from when they had carried Silas' body down. Not his own.

As he drew away from Baron Arald's old room, the light grew dimmer. Soon enough he was surrounded by darkness. As he got lower and lower, he heard laughing coming from higher up in the keep. High, manic laughter of a madman. Doors he remembered he left open were now closed, but the meaning behind that didn't register with his mind. He just had to get down to the ground floor, and get out from these suffocating walls. In the darkness, something snatched at his clothes, causing him to shy to the side.

In his fear, he bumped into the wall, his descending foot went wide, and he missed the next step. Instead of falling forward, though, he fell backwards, his bottom slamming hard into the stone step. Crying out at the pain, he continued forward, feeling something wrap around his neck.

Will hooked a hand underneath whatever went around his throat—it was long, wet, and slimy, and the smell nearly made him gag—and pushed it away. He ducked under it as he continued to slide down the steps.

"What the hell is going on out here?" someone yelled, preceded by the sound of thick wood hitting stone. But the darkness was too complete to see anything, and Will was too fast.

By the time Halt stepped out into the hall, Gilan looking over his shoulder with his sword unsheathed in his hand, Will was long gone.

Moments later, Will, going too fast to stop himself, slammed into the door of the keep. Feeling the presense coming, he scrabbled around the door, pulling against the handle in desperation. It took him a moment of struggling to open it before he realized which door he was at, and when he did, he pushed instead of pulled. He stumbled out into the courtyard, breaking out into a run. Not realizing how close they actually were, he nearly fell over the log that surrounded Elijah's and Horace's fire.

"WOAH!" Elijah rocketed to his feet as Will came out of nowhere, nearly tripping over his seat and falling face-first into the fire. Eli reached forward in attempts to catch Will before he fell, but the moment his hand went around Will's sleeve, it was jerked out of his grip.

Horace, sitting beside Elijah and actually leaning against the portion of the log that Will tripped over, spun in his seat and reached out, being the one to catch Will before he fell into the fire.

It took Will another moment to realize he was no longer in the darkness, or trapped by the walls of the keep. Looking around him, he saw the scene that he had been looking down on earlier. The small campsite Horace and Eli had made while the others went into the rooms in the lower part of the keep. The fire flickered behind Horace's head, who's lap he actually sat in, and Elijah looked down on the two of them with a perplexed and suspicious look on his face.

Will noticed his wrists, seeing only light scars from where the irons had been, but no raw skin or bleeding wrists that had caused the pain from before. No, those were a thing of the past. Years ago. Gone, because of the person who stood in front of him.

Feeling his neck, he felt no bruise or pain, except for his racing heartbeat.

"Will?" Eli said, looking down on him, "You okay?"

All he felt was Horace's eyes on him. Blood rushed to Will's cheeks, and, and quickly as possible without kneeing Horace in the crotch, Will got to his feet.

"Fine," he said, out of breath. Brushing his clothes of any dust, he checked underneath his coat to make sure his saxes were still there. He felt for the one that was strapped in traditional Ranger style beside his throwing knife, and then checked for the one that was hanging horizontally along the back of his belt. Obviously, he was spooked to be checking for weapons that he rarely, if at all, removed. Eli even watched as he ran a hand along the inside of his

"What happened?" Eli said, still looking at him with caution. The look in Will's eyes was something he had seen before, and something he didn't enjoy seeing. "Will—"

"I'm _fine_ ," Will snapped, standing up straight.

Horace flinched as Eli stepped up, moving quicker than he'd ever seen him move in all the time they'd fought beside each other. Elijah grabbed Will roughly by the shoulders, dragging him closer so they were nose to nose. Anger flared in Eli's eyes, while the cloth of Will's jacket was bunched tightly in his fists. "No, you idiot," he hissed, "you're not _fine._ You never are fine whenever you say that, and you know that."

Will ripped his jacket from Eli's grip, glaring daggers at him. "That's the damn _point,_ " he snarled back, a hand going to his side. He didn't push back the jacket cloth, but he felt the outline of the dagger at his side.

Without a second glance, Will turned his back to Eli and Horace, one completely baffled, and the other angry.

Gilan and Horace, followed belatedly by a tired looking Alyss, walked out of the keep, watching as, for the second time that day, Will stalked out of the front gate of Redmont, startling a few Resistance members who were on watch there. They stepped back at seeing Will, recognizing the fury and annoyance in him. They glanced back to where they knew Elijah was at, before looking forward and watching him walk down the hill.

"Was that Will?" Alyss said from behind Gilan and Halt, frowning as she watched the front gate.

"Yea," Halt murmured, watching in the same direction.

"I thought he left." Gilan rubbed the back of his head, yawning before he had finished his sentence.

"Whatever you thought," Elijah muttered, watching Will's receding back with a twinge of bitterness, "you thought wrong."

It wasn't until he had walked out of the castle as well, following after Will, that Horace realized he was repeating the words Will had snapped at him earlier that day when he was confused with the Resistance's participation.

 _I was asking them for a favor,_ he had said, bitterly shaking his head, _not for their lives._

Horace paused, turning to look at Eli. Why was he so invested in Will's life? So invested in all of this? If it was as he said, that he broke Will out of the jail just to spite those who had been harrying them, then what was his relationship to Will?

Why did it nearly feel as if Eli took over both Horace's spot in Will's life, as well as _Alyss'_ spot?

* * *

 **(A/N): I have no excuses.**


	10. Cluelessness

"No offense El," Hippolyta snapped, towering over the smaller person with a terrifying glower on her face, "but my _late_ father and I followed Will because of who he was, not because of his ideals or promises. And certainly not for _you_." Crossing her arms, she looked over at the other Resistance members who stood around them. "So where the hell did he go?"

Eli rubbed the back of his neck, not sure what to say. "I—I . . . I don't know, Hippolyta. You know how Will gets sometimes, I don't control him. He didn't tell me where he was going or for how long—"

" _Three_ weeks is long for even him," someone said from the back, stepping up behind Hippolyta. It was Hilde, who was known for their strong opinions and arguing capabilities.

Inwardly, Elijah groaned. "Look," he tried, "Sir Horace and his friends know the area quite well, and know places where Will might've gone. I'll ask them for places they think he might've gone and if they could check them before we leave—"

"The 'ell do you mean ' _before we leave'_?" snapped Hilde, nearly pushing Hippolyta aside in attempts to get at Eli.

Eli, however, knew what type of person Hilde was, and knew that in a full out fight, he would certainly win. "We've been sitting here in Redmont for too long," Elijah explained, crossing his arms and looking directly at Hilde. The fighter quelled down, shrinking behind Hippolyta the moment they noticed that Elijah's gaze was on them. "I've talked to others, Sir Horace and his Skandian friends, as well as their other allies that have trickled in. We've accumulated quite a large force, and they think they might be able to take down Araluen."

"With all them Ghosts?" Hippolyta stepped forward again, her eyes wide and angry. "You of all of us should know why going against any of those damn Ghosts would be suicidal."

"I've talked with Will about this previously as well," Eli continued, ignoring Hippolyta, "Before he left. He said that, while strong and scary as all hell, there's not a large number of them—probably just over a hundred, less, even."

"Anything could have happened in the time Will's been out of Araluen, though," another person said from behind Eli. "We don't know how accurate his estimation is. Either way, I didn't think he'd even spent time outside of the dungeons."

Shaking his head, Eli turned to face the speaker. Whoever they were, he didn't recognize them. "No. You forget, Araluen was the capital of the _kingdom_ of Araluen before these Ghosts took over. Will would have known the area quite well—he also told me that one time he slipped out, and made it to the third level before he realized that only the first was occupied."

"No offense to Will or anything," Hippolyta spoke, "but what's the likelihood that he would have survived that?"

There were a few murmurs of agreement, most of them looking around at each other and then back to Elijah. Feeling the pressure, El crossed his arms. "Look, I can't say whether Will was lying or not, but from observing the place the Rangers can still say that we outnumber them. We've just been sitting here like ducks, waiting for them to realize this could be an actual problem for them. We need to get moving—either towards, or away."

"And who'll lead us with Will gone?" someone else said, to Eli's right, "you're not exactly the best fighter amongst us, Eli, and especially not a leader of a group this large."

Eli froze. They were right. He would have to lead them with Will gone, being the closest person to the one person they would follow. No one else had been with Will as long as he had, meaning no one else would have a clue as to his plans or ideas. Not that Eli had any idea either, but he was still, technically, the second in charge. _How can a prostitute-con-person lead this many people in a siege when they can't even decide on who they are?_ Eli thought, tightening their arms against their chest.

Suddenly, he wasn't feeling so secure at the moment, being surrounded by these people.

But she had to keep going.

Despite feeling like she was back in the position of being a prisoner and being forced to use her body as appeal to keep her safe. Despite being violated night after night, she had survived, although afterwards she wasn't quite sure if she wanted to be a girl any longer.

So she decided to become a he. Or a they. Sometimes an it, or multiple at once.

But as time went on after that, it steadied. He was he, he was they, but that was it.

But right now, they just felt confused.

"L—look," Eli snapped, "Yes, I am _completely_ unqualified for this," they admitted, "but as of right now, the one person who _is_ qualified is not here. It doesn't just have to be me either—all of us have our own strengths and weaknesses—so why does it just have to be me?" Upon pointing that out, Eli came upon another idea. "And, it wasn't just _Will_ leading us, but also Sir Horace, and now there being Rangers, them too. This isn't a one-person effort."

"What is that supposed to mean?" a woman said, cocking her head to the side.

"It means," Hippolyta said, staring down at Eli, "that we're apparently going to go against the Ghosts without Will because its suicide to wait. They'll end up coming to us, and then we'll be doomed."

They let Eli go after that, apparently satisfied that they wouldn't be sitting around anymore. _That was suspiciously easy_ , they thought, watching Hippolyta over their shoulder as she did the same thing. Their eyes met, and a small understanding passed between them—she'll be handling them, in Will's position. She knew all of them the best, unlike Eli, who more or less just stayed to the sides. It would be a joint effort between them—Eli figuring out what should happen with the help of the Araluens and Skandians, with Hippolyta wrangling in everyone who decided to throw a fit. Just like Will, she wouldn't stop people from leaving—some already had—but she would help reinstall the bravado the group had had before.

Seeing Eli pull themself from the group, Horace walked over from the keep, where he had been speaking with the two Rangers and the courier—who still seemed a bit hostile towards Eli, despite the jokes.

"What's up with them?" Horace asked, looking over Eli's shoulder to see Hippolyta look away and start yelling at people. She had straightened her back as well, which made her tower over anyone and everyone.

Instead of answering the question, Elijah studied the Rangers and courier in the background. "Who would best be able to find any of Will's old hiding spots around the area?"

Horace frowned, noticing the evasion of his question. But he considered his answer carefully, turning to look at his friends. "Will was like a brother to me, but after I was promoted I was mainly around the Araluen area, and didn't get to spend that much time with Will afterwards. Halt was Will's mentor, but after he graduated he did a lot of things alone. Gilan, while he also trained in the Redmont area, wasn't here that often as he was mainly assigned to Whitby." He paused, considering the last person in the small group. "Alyss was married to Will, and probably spent the most time with him. So, her probably."

Eli nodded, studying her. She wore a white dress, with a long skirt and sleeves. The standard courier outfit. _I wonder if she has any hiking clothes stashed away?_

"So, what are we looking for?" Alyss asked, marching ahead of Eli as they maneuvered across the ruins of the town she called Wensley. She had changed into trousers and a shirt made of thick cloth. Her pants were tucked into riding boots, which nearly went up to her knees. She had hiking clothes all right.

"Any place Will might have gone to get some solitude, probably not too far from here so he could still keep an eye on things," he replied following behind her with the small pack he had grabbed. He wanted to be back before sundown, so he had grabbed a few small things for a make-shift lunch.

Eli also still felt a little dizzy with the confusion back in the courtyard, but he felt as if his mind was finally stabilizing back to what it had been.

"We're finally looking for him, then?" she said, not looking back to face Eli.

"We didn't have to look for him before," he sighed, feeling like he could predict what she was going to say next. The way Horace had been looking at him recently wasn't comfortable, and it could have easily spread to Alyss.

"And why not?"

Sighing again, Eli stepped over a fallen log, running a hand through his hair, "More or less because this has happened before and he'd always come back within a week."

"It's been three weeks," the courier pointed out, finally stepping out of the burned patch that had been Wensley and off into the forest.

"Well, yea," he said regretfully, "It was probably a combination of Silas' death and Will's problem the night after."

"What even happened to him?" Alyss asked, finally glancing over her shoulder to look at Eli. _Prying to get information that Horace couldn't,_ he figured, realizing that Horace was likely to pass any information he had got to his family.

He shrugged, not knowing how else to explain Will's problem. "He has some vision problems, thinks he sees things." _And that's all I'm going to say_ , he told himself. What more could he say without breaking his promise to Will?

The courier froze. "You mean hallucinations?"

Eli shrugged again. "I guess you could call them that."

At that, she spun on him, looking him in the eye with a suspicious glare. It was that moment that he noticed she was of-height with him. "Why are you and Will so close?" she asked suddenly, eyeing him up and down. Earlier, she had accidently walked in on Eli changing, seeing the bandages wrapped around his chest. Basically everyone knew that Eli wasn't actually a guy, but it seemed to have still come as a surprise to her.

"I helped him to spite someone and ended up meeting my soulmate," Elijah said, regretting it instantly. _She probably doesn't want to hear that her husband has possibly been cheating on her . . ._

"So you two _have_ slept together?" she said, incredulous.

Snorting, Eli moved past her—before breaking out into a fit of laughter, and having to catch himself on a tree. "What?" he snorted. "You think Will and I _sleep_ together?"

"Well, from how you two talk sometimes—"

"Look," he said, "no offense, but you only saw Will for a half an hour _maximum._ And I was just joking with him when I said we were married or something."

"Well then how you talk _about_ him."

"Okay, look," Eli said, turning around, "Will and I are just friends. I helped him to spite a common enemy, and ended up meeting a pretty decent guy." He spread his hands out in confusion. "I get that you're a bit hurt with him treating you the way he did, considering you two are technically married, but he's changed as well." Eli nearly explained everything, but couldn't bring himself to do it. "Right now, though, Will is _this_ Will, and not the one you knew. He may be the same person and body, but it's not the same personality and mentality. And," he added, "Will would never sleep with me, mainly because I'm not interested with sleeping with anyone. He has better things to worry about."

"So then what's wrong with him?" she asked, taking a step closer to him.

That's when it hit home. She wasn't trying to figure out who was sleeping with who—in fact, he even recalled Will saying: " _She's not petty—everything has an ulterior motive, usually to get at a questions she's been asked that she couldn't answer."_

Eli stood up. "Nope, nope, nope," he said, walking through the forest and leaving her behind, "Will said you were clever, and you _still_ blindsided me," he sounded bitter, throwing the comment over his shoulder like it was an insult. " _Damn it!"_

Satisfied, Alyss smiled, and followed Eli into the forest.


	11. To Retake Araluen

Castle Araluen wasn't what it used to be. Will hadn't been exaggerating when he had described Araluen as ruins. Many of the once majestic towers were now collapsed, as well as the steepled roof being caved in a multiple points. On one end, there was even a partially repaired hole in the wall with scorch marks around the edges. The stone was no longer the light honey color Horace had come to love, but were instead a dark rusty color. No more manicured lawns or beautiful gardens—no, they were all dead and gone, rotted brown and dusty. It was almost as if they _were_ ruins, completely abandoned and left behind.

Except, it was common knowledge, apparently, that they weren't.

Horace glanced behind him, watching Eli herd his small group together, speaking to them in low tones. Halt and Gilan stood beside him, maybe to emphasize his point, or maybe to show they too were in charge.

Their plan was simple: Eli led one group around the back and through the hole his friend had blown to save Will, while Horace led another in the traditional, full-scale attack. Expecting resistance and closed gates, everyone wore their highest level of armor, and had even made a few things of siege equipment. A few people had come up with the idea while they were waiting around to see what they would do with Will missing. But, with how things were looking, it seemed as if they wouldn't end up needed the machines after all.

The Ghosts had left the front gate open.

Pursing his lips, Horace studied the open gates, wondering— _knowing—_ if it was a trap. But there wasn't much else they could do, other than go through the front gates. Except for how Eli would get in, there was no other entrance through Castle Araluen's front wall.

Footsteps crunched behind him, and someone slapped a hand on Horace's shoulder. Looking to his side, he saw Hippolyta standing beside him, wearing dark leather armor and holding a spear in her hand like a staff. She would handle the people Will and Eli had brought along, while Horace would handle the Skandians and the few Araluens.

Sighing, Horace looked away from Hippolyta. Despite knowing that he _knew_ how to siege a castle, he couldn't help but to feel like a fish out of water. He would be fighting with unfamiliar people, mainly, and he didn't know them all that well. The one connection he had to them left, disappeared, and the one person he was partly comfortable with wasn't going to be anywhere near him. He was by himself, with people he didn't know or trust, about to go into a fairly dangerous situation.

 _Might as well get it over with,_ he thought, turning back around to see where Eli was with talking to his group. They must've just finished, because a few people had grins on their faces, and Halt was shaking his head ruefully. From the way Gilan was cackling, Horace figured that Elijah must've cracked some inappropriate joke. He looked, saw Horace watching, and smiled grimly. He looked away momentarily and tapped Gil's arm, and motioned in Horace's direction. Gilan caught Halt's attention, and the two Rangers and Resistance member made their way through their crowd to meet with Horace.

"You sure you don't me or Halt to come with you, Horace?" Gilan asked, putting a hand on the knight's shoulder. There was a concerned look in his eyes, but Horace didn't let them see how uncomfortable he truly was.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he said, nodding towards Hippolyta and her large spear, not to mention the multiple knives and blades she had at her side. "I think it might be the enemy we'll have to worry about."

For the first time, a dubious look flashed across Eli's face. "Horace, you _do_ realize that the Ghosts aren't any normal people, right?"

Gilan snorted, breaking in before Horace could respond. "What, are they _real_ ghosts? They're just people, and people die."

Eli shook his head. "No, they're people. But they're unnatural. I don't know what they do to get the way they are, but they fight like maniacs. They're like combinations of Rangers and Genovesans, but mix in there some insanity and psychopathy you might just get half of those immoral bastards," he said bitterly, shaking his head and glaring up towards the crumbling towers of Castle Araluen. "No one with morals or sanity would do what they've done to people. I don't know what they are, but they're not human."

Horace said nothing, but turned and followed Eli's gaze towards the castle.

There, in the window, a distinct shadow stood.

And then it was gone.

Someone sucked in a breath, and Horace turned away. "Yes, Eli," Horace murmured, "I think I do understand what they are. Just seeing the difference between who Will was and who he is now proves what they're capable of."

Eli looked at Horace for a long moment, his eyes studying him and peeling him apart. There was a blankness to his eyes, something Horace had noticed seemed to come along whenever he was thinking or considering something for a long time. Finally, though, Elijah blinked, and narrowed his eyes minutely. Then, without saying anything more, he nodded, and turned away. Halt and Gilan looked between the two of them, wondering what had just happened. Horace seemed to get it, for he nodded and looked back towards Castle Araluen with a sad look in his eyes.

"Horace?" Halt said, trying to catch the knight's attention.

"Hmm?"

"Good luck."

* * *

They decided that they would go through the open gate.

Horace had watched as Eli, Halt, and Gilan's small group had gone around, going stealthily towards the far side of the wall so they could scale it. From there, they would drop down, and get inside by the hole in the wall near the dungeons. They would have that part easy, but then they would have to go around, and aid Horace's group from behind.

Because his group would be the distraction they needed to get inside in the first place.

No one showed themselves as they walked warily up to the gates. No rocks or arrows came raining down as per usual when attacking a castle, and, from what Horace could see from his spot in the front, no one moved around in the courtyard in front of them. From how silent and immobile everything was, he was nearly willing to believe that they were trying to attack a completely empty and deserted castle. But one look at Hippolyta beside him, or the people behind him, and he knew that the Ghosts were there, watching. Waiting.

Preparing.

* * *

Eli slipped over the top of the wall, and hung over the side for a moment looking for another handheld. Finding one over to the side partially, he scooted over and down, allowing others to crawl past him. He had been the first up—he would be the last down. Gilan came next, swinging over the top like he'd done it everyday, without even smacking his sword sheath on the stone. He gave Eli a passing glance and nod, before continuing down to the ground. Then came a few Resistance members, those that knew how to move silently and unnoticed. A few Araluens were mixed in there, former Ranger apprentices or retirees. Then the older Ranger, Halt, climbed over the side, a mask of frustration on his face.

"Not a fan of heights?" Eli whispered jokingly as Halt turned himself around stiffly.

"Not a fan of falling," came his clipped answer. Eli snickered, and watched the older man climb down. At first, he hadn't been sure that frontlines were a good place for someone of Halt's age, but seeing him move and his reasoning had quickly put Elijah on the side that Halt wouldn't need anyone's help. A quick jab at that, and dodging a swipe from Halt was apparently his acceptance through the mentor, and soon after that Gilan was more open around him. It was easy to tell that Horace and Gilan, and even Will, looked up to the jaded old Ranger, and, in all honesty, Eli thought it was kind of cute.

Seeing Gilan land on the ground, and a few people starting to land around him, Elijah began his decent. He always remained above Halt's head, watching to make sure that his hands or fingers weren't shaking, and that his limbs wouldn't give out. While waiting for him to move, Eli looked up and across to the shattered windows, wondering who was staring back at him.

"Eli!" a fierce whisper pushed him out of his reverie, and he continued on his way down, barely paying attention to where he was putting his hands and feet. Soon enough, everyone stood with their feet on the ground, looking towards a large hole in the wall.

* * *

Everything was quiet as they all filed into the courtyard. Something was wrong, Horace knew, but he couldn't figure out what. Why weren't the Ghosts coming at them? Why had they left the gate open, but not attacked them when they came through? Had they seen Eli's group first, and went after them? They were a smaller group, and wouldn't be able to take the full force of the Ghosts coming down on them. Horace glanced to Hippolyta, who knew more about the Ghosts than he did.

What he saw wasn't good—she was as confused as she was.

"Where the fu—" someone started to growl, but Hippolyta quickly spun on them, her spear raised a foot off the ground.

"Shut your mouth," she snarled quietly, "or I'll be the one to end you instead of them Ghosts."

Horace, no longer paying attention to whomever had spoken, took another step forward, remembering each cobblestone and each brick as if the last time he'd seen them was less than a few hours ago. He'd lived here, in Araluen, for a large chunk of his life. Seeing it in such . . . desolation . . . made his chest hurt.

His foot hit a pebble as it came down, kicking the pebble across the ground, and against a discarded piece of metal from the blacksmith nearby.

And then everything went to shit, and fell into chaos.

* * *

Elijah watched from the second story window in horror. He was in the back, watching their backs to make sure no one came up from behind them. But, in reality, it should have been Horace that they were worried about. He didn't call Halt or Gilan back, knowing what the sight would do to them.

They came from nowhere.

Where once there was nothing, a full body sprang from, blades already swinging and slashing. With the first jump, a large chunk of their people were cut down. Most of the Skandians weren't expecting the sneak attack, although the Resistance members had been expecting something of a surprise attack. Horace, in the front, barely got his shield up in time before some Ghost blade came slamming down upon it, causing the knight to stumble, and bump into a man behind him.

That man died with a knife through his throat seconds later, and Horace ducked out of the way of that one as well, but not fast enough to dodge the blade in front of him. Horace fought the two attacking Ghosts at once, although it was impossible to remain uninjured in their onslaught.

Hippolyta ran her spear through the one at Horace's back, before turning and unsheathing the sword at her side, and continued fighting the one in front of her.

Horace got that brief respite, before the one in front of him lunged, forcing him back into the defense.

Eli gulped, and turned away. He ran after his group, knowing that they had to hurry in order to save even half of their friends.

* * *

Horace fell to his knees, completely unable to understand how someone could fight like the way this man was.

What made it worse was that Horace recognized the man who was continuously slamming against his shield, bending and warping the metal so that it dug into his arm—injuring him even as he defended himself. Cursing, the knight tried kicking out underneath his shield to try and knock down the Ghost in front of him. Instead, all he got was a cut in the leg, burning through him.

The man—the _Ghost—_ in front of him was that one guy—that one man that made Will jump from a cliff. The one man that made Will momentarily suicidal.

The man that had originally brought Will here, to Araluen, the domain of the Ghosts.

Will's nemesis slammed once more against the shield, and again, and again, and again, and that was that.

Metal crunched, bone snapped, Horace screamed.

And then nothing.


	12. Resistor

_"Did 'ya find yer friend?" The Skandian asked, looking to Horace._

 _Horace had shrugged, and looked away from the Skandian. "Not really sure he's my friend anymore, but yes . . ."_

 _Will turned away, wondering if he had truly lost Horace because of his actions. As he turned away, he looked back to Eli, for one reason or another. Maybe to be sure he hadn't lost him as well. The two of them locked gazes, but only for moments. Eli dropped his eyes after a few seconds, and looked out to sea._

I've lost everybody, _Will convinced himself, looking to the boards of the ship,_ I've lost everybody I care about, and it's because of _him._

* * *

 _Him._ That word was nearly choked out of Will's mouth as he watched the events unfolding before him.

 _He_ hit Horace's shield _over,_ and _over,_ and _over_ again. The metal kept warping, digging into the knight's arm. In his attempt to defend himself, his leg got slashed, and Horace fell to his knees. _What is_ he _doing?_ Will's mind internally screamed, causing him to duck further below the wall. _We had a damn deal. What is_ he _doing, what is_ he _doing?_

Someone down in the courtyard screamed Horace's name, and Will forced himself to look back over the stone railing.

Halt, Gilan, Elijah, and the small group of people that had climbed the wall with them had rushed to the exit, and broken out into the courtyard, giving the main force of the Resistance the back-up they needed. The small reserve of Skandians they had left behind as well came sprinting through the front gate, swinging their swords and axes like there was no tomorrow. And, for a few of them, there wouldn't be.

Will watched in disbelief as Elijah lunged towards _him,_ even has Horace's body crumpled to the ground, his arm bent and crunched at an odd angle.

His friend never had a chance.

Even as Horace went down, _he_ was swinging his blade around, connecting completely with Eli's side, flinging him to the side as if he were a leaf falling from a tree. _He_ didn't even look behind him, not even to check who he'd hit, or if he killed them.

And that was two down.

Will's . . . mind . . . paused. His mind . . . struggled to comprehend . . . Elijah and Horace . . . dying. W . . ere they dead? What . . . happened to? them?

He struggled to breathe.

Before he knew what he was doing, his hand fell to the quiver of arrows at his side. He snatched up the longbow that was laying on the parapets beside him, and nocked the arrow. His mind was blank, not registering his actions. It didn't register as he drew back, his unused muscles groaning with the effort. But it hadn't been that long since he'd last used the bow, and they supported the weight of the string. Moments flashed through his head, brought on by the usage of the bow. Shadows of pain flickered across his body, his fingers flinched, his aim knocked off. But he held onto the string, not letting go, even as he watched _him_ pounding against Hippolyta, her barely able to stand against _him._

Horace lay still underneath him, forgotten like a piece of trash.

Eli was bleeding out a few meters away, clutching his side with his forehead pressed against the cobblestones. His arm was trying to prop his body up, his hand contorted into a fist.

Will released.

The arrow flew past both Hippolyta and _him_ , instead flying by _his_ ear close enough to grab _his_ attention. It slammed into another Ghost's back, however, and that person stumbled and fell against the Resistance member they had been fighting.

 _He_ paused.

 _He_ held up his hand, not in greeting, but in a fist, without even looking up to see where the arrow had come from.

All Ghost's, whether their back was to him or not, fell back, swinging their weapons but not attacking.

A stand-off.

An impasse.

Lighted by the firing of a single arrow, and a raised fist.

Will narrowed his eyes, knowing that the show of power was on purpose. _Purpose,_ Will thought, _he's all about_ purpose.

* * *

"I never thought I'd see you walk through those doors, Treaty," _he_ murmured, watching as a few of the Ghosts parted for the Ranger. He'd dropped down from his perch on the wall, his large long bow hanging in his hand at his side. He wore that idiotic jacket, made partially from worn leather, and the other part from his old Ranger cloak. "Last time, I recall, you were dragged through."

"Auberon," Will whispered in response, ignoring the last part. Surprisingly, the sound traveled the few meters that separated them. Everything had gone still, the Ghosts falling back with their leader's orders, and the Resistance people too stunned and exhausted to do otherwise.

Horace's body lay limp on the side, Hippolyta kneeling beside it, breathing heavily. Through the crowd, he could make out Gilan leaning over Eli's body, hands and arms covered in blood and a panicked look in his face. Halt was nowhere to be seen.

"Have you come to apologize?" Auberon asked, his eyes curiously following Will's. "I mean, considering how you just left without _asking."_ He sneered, seeing the whore Will had made friends with crumpled on the ground with another Ranger trying to save them. "Whatever happened to that fucking bitch, she deserved it."

 _Oh, that's right,_ Will's mind illogically recalled, _Eli's technically a woman. But . . . No, he didn't like being called_ she _. Eli was Eli._

Instead, he said: "You hurt him."

"What?" Auberon's eyes swung back to Will's racking over his rumpled clothes and lack of actual weapons. All Will was visibly carrying was his bow. "I don't care if I hurt her—him— _it,_ I asked you a fucking question. You left, Treaty. That's against our rules."

Will paused, his blank eyes sliding from Eli's body and falling to Horace's. "What did they ever do to you?" Will tipped his head, finally forcing himself to meet eyes with Auberon. "You said it was between me and you. That no one else would ever fall to you because of me."

"And you _believed_ me?" he snorted, sheathing his blade and putting his fists on his hips. "What the fuck's wrong with you, Treaty? Did I knock your head a few too many times? I only did that when you . . . m _isbehaved._ But even with brain damage you should know that I wouldn't keep deals with _you."_

"No," Will dropped his bow, drifting over to stand above Horace. He could see the white of bone on his shield arm, as well as blood dripping down his head. His leg, folded partially underneath him, was soaked and covered in blood. "I guess I didn't, did I? Because when have you ever said anything you intended to keep?" Once again, Will found himself chopping off parts of what Auberon was saying, and ignoring them.

Auberon shook his head, his eyes watching Will just as a wolf watched his prey.

And that was exactly what Will was to him.

Prey.

"You're catching up here, finally," he sneered, "Finally understanding what it meant that I kept you _alive?"_

 _Yes,_ Will thought, _I was kept alive so you had something to hit whenever you failed. I was kept alive to be the replacements for your punishments._

Will watched as a drop of blood rolled down Horace's face, the Ranger's eyes wide and frozen where they were. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Gilan sit away from Eli, his red hands dropping away from the wound. There was so much red around the two of them . . . Gilan hung his head in despair. Across the yard, the sob of exhaustion could be heard. But no one moved. No one did or said anything, waiting to see how Will and Auberon's conversation went on.

"I'm finally understanding why you kept me alive," Will nodded, a small, manic smile playing on his lips. Both Elijah and Horace were surely dead, and Halt was nowhere to be seen. Alyss was sent back to Briaz to meet Duncan and the Araluen force. Gilan was red, covered in either his own blood or Eli's. Hippolyta was on the ground, breathing heavier and heavier by the second. Everyone was dead or dying or in trouble. He didn't even know where Halt had ended up, possibly dead in some corner with a knife through his chest.

Because of him.

"Because I was finally putting a worthless piece of shit like you to a purpose," Auberon nodded, a wide smile spreading across his face. " _That's_ why you're alive, Treaty."

"I can't wait to rip that smile off your damn, smug face," Will laughed suddenly, choking on his laughter the moment it escaped his mouth. "I can't _wait_ to repay you for the _purpose_ you so _generously_ gave me," he cackled.

* * *

Afterwards, Will didn't remember much.

He remembered drawing his saxes from the sheaths he kept horizontal against his back, hidden from view. Auberon wasn't expecting anything—he hadn't thought Will had any weapons on him, let alone the audacity to attack him while surrounded by a ring of Ghosts. But at that point, Will hadn't cared. His family was _dying_ and most likely they didn't even _care_ anymore.

Despite him falling from traditional Ranger fighting techniques, they were still mixed in to his current 'style', if you could call it that. He chucked one of the knives and it landed with a solid _thunk_ in his shoulder, staggering him. Will lunged at him, but Auberon had gotten his sword out of the sheath somehow, and parried the saxe. Despite being severely injured, he kept up his deadly speed as if it were nothing, glaring at Will over their crossed blades.

Around them, Will sensed, things had fallen back into chaos.

Auberon spun away from him, yanking out the saxe and tossing it aside. He stepped around Will in a circle, watching him.

Horace's hand shot out from underneath his body, wrapping around Auberon's ankle and tangling his legs—tripping him.

Will lunged at him, his saxe already arching downwards.

And then someone's hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him away from what remained of his tormentor. "Will," they raggedly breathed, "he's dead. He's dead, Will, stop. Will, stop. Stop, Will, he's dead," they tugged on his shoulder again, their hand slipping down his arm, and pulling by the elbow. One last time, Will slammed his saxe into the body, before pushing the person behind him away, and staggering to his feet. "Will," they rasped, "Will, stop. Come back."

Instead, Will chucked the remained saxe into the back of another Ghost. The man fell without a sound.

Will screamed, his hands covering his ears as he fell to his knees, ducking his head and landing it heavily on the cobblestones. The skin broke, blood spurting from the wound as he dragged his head across the rough stone.

But he didn't stop screaming. It kept coming, with every scream dying another starting up. It was constant. It was constant, until every Ghost realized that they prey had fought back and won, until every Ghost realized that Auberon was dead. Completely. Utterly, and completely dead.

Silently, they all disappeared. Gliding from the scene, until all that was left were the Skandians and Resistance people. And the bodies.

His screams kept coming, however. Will's nails dug into the side of his head, as if they needed to tear his ears off, his face off. They kept coming and coming, no one willing to step forward and comfort him, either them being afraid of him or confused, or stunned.

Horace stumbled to his feet, the only one moving. His arm throbbed in it's warped metal casting that had formerly been his shield. He staggered over to Will, falling down beside him, his uninjured arm landing across his friend's shoulders.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," Horace murmured repeatedly, resting his face against the back of Will's neck, "it's okay, it's okay, it's okay . . . . Everything's gonna be okay, just wait. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay . . ."


	13. Partway Truthful

By the time Will calmed down, it was too late.

People had cleared the courtyard, uncomfortable with the meltdown their supposed fearless leader was having. They carried the wounded and dead out of the way, all the while awkwardly avoiding looking towards Will and Horace. As Will calmed down, Horace was close to passing out once more, and wasn't able to stop what inevitably was going to happen.

Will's eyes landed on the bloody corpse of Elijah.

He jerked out of Horace's arm, startling the knight. Horace fell over, instinctively flinging a hand out to catch him before he fell onto his back. Except his injured arm couldn't hold his weight, and he instead he hissed as the numbed pain once more flared to life, and he fell onto his back. Will flinched away from Horace, scrabbling on his feet, before shakily trying to stand up.

"Will—" Horace started, his uninjured arm stretched out—but it wasn't enough. Will fled, slipping into one of the many doors along the front courtyard of Castle Araluen, and disappearing from sight.

* * *

"Horace." Groggily, Horace slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the bright light that was shining in his face. From what he could tell, it was somewhat muted, but that didn't make it any less painful.

"Horace?" another voice said, different than the first. A hand landed on his shoulder, he thought, but he really couldn't be sure. His entire body was numb, especially his shield arm, which honestly felt like it was completely gone. Chopped off. _Oh, crap, they didn_ _'t cut off my arm did they?_

Groaning, Horace shut his eyes tighter, not wanting to know how he looked with only one arm. Cassandra sure as hell wouldn't be happy, and neither would her father. Doesn't that just sound amazing? Duncan's prize Oakleaf Knight, retired because some smartass cocky bastard hit his shield too hard and he fell down on it. _Great._

"Horace, open your damn eyes," the first voice hissed, "before I force them open."

It was Halt, leaning over him with an exhausted and somewhat annoyed look on his face. As he opened his eyes, however, a flash of relief could be seen in the old Ranger's eyes, just before Gilan knocked him out of the way, and leaned in Horace's face as well. "Horace!" he gasped, his eyes wide and hopeful, "Jeez, you're all right! We weren't sure what to expect, especially with you foregoing treatment like you did earlier."

Waiting a few moments for his mind to catch up, Horace narrowed his eyes at the brightness. Gilan blocked most of it, but he also blocked him from recognizing where he was. It wasn't the sky that was so bright, but instead a cloth that seemed to be between him and the sky. A tent, then? Turning his head, Horace noticed that he was in a row of cots, most filled with bodies that seemed to be unmoving. Looking closer, most were breathing or moving in some way. The infirmary tent, then?

 _Just like the one Will nearly fought his way out of in Redmont,_ Horace thought wryly.

Will.

"Where's . . ." Horace tried to say, the last word lost in his pounding head and fumbling lips.

 _If Will_ _'s gone, Halt and Gilan would be the last people to know where he's at. They'd need to ask . . ._

"Lija . . ." He mumbled, waving towards the tent flaps with the single hand he could move. It was all he could get out, his headache flaring up with every one of his movements.

Gilan sat back, his face suddenly dropping. The tall Ranger's face was frozen, for only a moment, before he turned and abruptly walked away, his shoulders stiff. As he walked, his back stiff, his shoulders started to shake before making it to the exit, and he hurried out before people could see him. His mouth was covered with a hand and eyes closed, Horace could barely see, even as Gilan turned the flap and disappeared from sight.

"What's . . . wrong?" Horace managed with his dry throat, stiffly turning his neck to look at Halt. But Halt was no longer looking at him, instead his head was turned staring at the cots further down, nearer the end of the long tent that was the infirmary. There was a curtained area at the back, blocked off from casual view. Except, as the Ranger and knight watched, a person nearer the curtain had a sheet put over their face, blood staining the stomach area and a spreading stain could be seen underneath the cot. Unceremoniously, two attendees lifted the cot, and moved towards the curtained area. Someone held the curtain open, giving Horace a view of what was actually back there.

Too many cots to count, many with some type of red stain or another, were set back there.

It took Horace's mind a moment to catch what was being inferred. That was where all of the dead bodies were being kept, until each person could be given a decent grave.

And Halt had looked back there when Eli was asked for.

Horace let his head drop without another word, staring up to the top of the tent, closing his eyes.

"He's not back there," Halt murmured, tapping Horace's knee. But when Horace opened his eyes to ask Halt what he meant, the Ranger was gone, and Horace was alone in a tent of dead and injured.

* * *

After an hour of arguing with an infirmary attendee, which ultimately only convinced her that he had at least the stamina to argue for an hour, he was released and was allowed to sleep in another area other than the infirmary. The least injured people had already started tossing and burning any of the Ghost's possessions that were left behind. Half did that, while the other half watched, waiting for the Ghosts to return after their mysterious exit after Auberon's death. Horace watched them with curiosity, before picking out one that he vaguely recognized.

Yuri was watching the wall, one eye covered with a bandage while another scanned the walls for intruders. His left arm was in a sling, but that was the extent of his injuries. He fought long range, and wasn't brought into the main fight until nearer the end. That being said, his injuries were nowhere near the worst. Horace's entire arm was bandaged tightly and splinted, as well as being put into a sling and given strict instructions not to stress his shoulder, back, or front muscles.

"Horace, you're up, I see. How're you feeling?" Yuri smiled wearily, lifting his right arm in greeting. Horace waved back, flashing the same world-weary smile that most people wore after something so physically, emotionally, and mentally draining.

"Fine, more or less. You?"

Chuckling, Yuri shook his head, his eyes going back to the wall. "Tired."

After a few minutes of small talk that was obviously forced, Horace finally brought up what he'd come to Yuri for. "Have you seen Will?"

Yuri turned away, his face telling Horace that that question was what he was expecting. "Horace, I'm sorry, but Will's been invisible lately," he says, sounding apologetic, "Someone saw him up in the remains of the south tower, but then five minutes later, someone claimed to have seen him down in the kitchens, which is physically impossible to get to there in less than five minutes, AND it's extremely unlikely to have two people see him when he's _this_ pissed off."

That made Horace pause. "Pissed off? Last I saw, he looked panicked. Scared, even."

This time, Yuri scoffed. "That's because you were unconscious, Horace. You didn't hear him afterwards."

Horace didn't stay with Yuri much longer, unsure with what he should do. Instead, he wandered on the inside of the wall, his hand trailing along the stones with familiar yet strange markings and patterns. He'd done this when he lived in Araluen, but it'd been so long that he'd forgotten most of the patterns. He walked, by himself with his throbbing arm and head, until he came upon the rubble of the blow in the wall. The hole from when Eli had broken Will out of prison. Half of the wall was reparied, but the project seemed to have been tossed to the side, forgotten and left behind.

Against the wall, sitting on a pile of rocks, Will sat with his head in his hands.

The knight stood there for a moment, staring at him as if he had four heads or three eyes. _How the hell did I find him so easily?_

" _I_ _'m sorry."_ The whisper barely made it across the space between them before it died out.

But Horace heard it. They were far enough away from everyone that it was completely silent, only the wind intruding on their isolation.

Will started talking before Horace said anything.

"It's just so screwed up, Horace. I don't know what to do. Before I thought I knew what to do, but Eli kept trying to talk me out of it, saying it was suicidal, and he just didn't get it. I mean, he did get it, because he always accused me of being suicidal but I'm not sure if he every realized how close he was when he first said that. All I ever wanted to do was to see Auberon again, and to actually be able to say something to him. _Do_ something to him. And that can be considered a suicide mission in and of its own, seeing him. But I wanted to do what he did to me. I wanted to make him suffer. But, y'know, I couldn't. I couldn't do it, not until Elijah gets murdered by the jackass, and you nearly get killed." Will took a deep breath, but didn't look up. When he continued, his voice sounded shaky. "And even then, I gave him the easy way out. I was _merciful,_ even when he wasn't to me, even when others probably think I'm a damn psychopath because I couldn't _stop._ And you know what? They'll never know the truth about Auberon, because Auberon is a living secret, never talked about, never confronted. That's how it is with him, and that's how it always will be. Eli or Silas or someone would always tell me that I need to get this shit out. Talk about it," he laughed bitterly, finally looking up from his vantage point. And Horace finally saw his face.

It was dirty and unshaved. After disappearing from Redmont, he'd probably not done anything like shower or shave, and then disappearing for who knows how long after his 'talk' with Auberon. Horace wasn't aware for how long he'd been out, but from the look of Will, it wouldn't have been that long. Cuts from his fingernails digging into the side of his face were evident, dragging lines of blood through the dust on his face. That was the only mar on him, otherwise from being amazingly dirty. Tracks were made through the dirt on his face from tears, emphasizing the emotions there.

A few minutes passed before Will's eyes finally landed on Horace. This time, there was no mixed emotions, no anger or indignation. Just . . . Sadness.

"I never wanted you to see me like this, Horace," he whispered, the corners of his mouth dipping. "Not you, not Halt, not Gilan. Not _Alyss,_ of all people. That's one reason why I pushed for her to go to Briaz instead of someone else. Because I just couldn't _stand_ her looking at me the way she was. Like I was someone new. Someone she didn't know. Someone she didn't _love._ _"_

Will opened his mouth to continue, his eyes full of despair. And suddenly, Horace knew what he was going to say. Knew how much Will didn't want to say it. "I—"

"You don't have to say it unless you're ready for that, Will." Horace murmured, his eyes trailing from the charred hole, to the one it was created for. "Don't force yourself to do something you're not ready for, bud. I'm not expecting anything of you, and your anger was righteous towards Auberon. I don't blame you for anything, now that I've met the bastard."

A strained laugh burst out of Will's lips, falling flat the moment it was out. He fell silent.

Tears forming, voicing cracking, he whispered, "I haven't heard someone call me bud in a while."

* * *

Hippolyta died the next morning, her lung punctured from a crossbow bolt. Gilan pulled a Will, and disappeared for a few days, and was found later on wandering the upper halls of Araluen by Halt. Halt himself seemed unperturbed, always hiding his emotions from everyone. Except for Horace, that is, no one saw how the old Ranger was affected.

Many Skandians were killed, and Dorvan and his crew left to honor them the way the Skandians did. Anyone in the Castle Araluen area could hear their party from kilometers away, a bonfire roaring into the night, for over a week. Dorvan didn't say anything to Horace on their deal, just nodded and raised a glass in his direction. Of the Resistance members, about half of those who came were killed during the battle, or died later on. Those who had left must've felt guilty, because every day a few came through the gates, carrying supplies and food.

Will was on and off. Sometimes he would be around, helping in his practical, sullen way that was a norm Horace was getting used to. Other days, he would disappear for hours on end until Horace went looking. He usually appeared the moment Horace was alone, leading the knight to believe that Will disappeared but didn't exactly want to be alone, so he stayed near and watched from above.

About a month after the battle and death of Auberon, a large army could be seen in the distance. Just as they came into view, an advance party broke off and galloped towards the front gate. Horace, Halt, Gilan, Dorvan, and a few remaining Resistance members met the party. Alyss rode with them, decked out in half light armor, with her saber at her side. Horace noticed her eyes scanning the crowds around them, probably searching for Will. Horace didn't tell her where he was, keeping his location secret, just as he wished. He would approach on his terms.

Bodies were buried, small funerals held for each deceased.

Except Elijah.

His body was still missing.


	14. Ep: Return

From his point of view, it looked as if Briaz was thriving. At least more so than what he remembered from when he first stepped foot into the small harbor town.

Two years after the final Rebellion and the return of the Araluen forces, the Kingdom was finally getting back on its feet. Briaz, a former small harbor town, now handled a population larger than some fiefs in their entirety. Castle Araluen was no longer the capital due to the damage the Ghosts wrecked, and Castle Redmont took over that job. At least, as far as he knew. It could be that they'll eventually move back to Castle Araluen after repairs are done, but as of the moment, no one lived or worked there.

Something other than prosperity drew people to Briaz. The town itself had little crime. That wasn't because of strict laws, or many guards, but moreover the result of a lone survivor of the war. Of the Rebellion. Apparently, it wasn't the fact that the person was especially scary, but actually from the fact that he charmed many people. If people weren't charmed, however, then they probably got scared.

Grinning at that thought, the visitor turned towards what he knew to be the former base of the main Resistance. No others seemed to realize what that small house had done for that country, because, as he could see it, a young couple had rented it out. Where was he then?

The visitor spun in a circle in the middle of the lane, his hood partially blocking things from his sight. It was habit to wear it, however, and it didn't occur to him to take it off.

"Excuse me," he held out a hand to a passing woman, carrying a basket filled to the brim with bread and fruits. "A friend of mine lives in the town, but he must have moved since I last saw him," he started. The woman smiled politely at him, and waited for him to finish, "He used to live in this house here, and from what I know, he seems to act like a peace-keeper for this area. He's a former Ranger, and—"

"Oh! You mean Mr. Treaty?" Her smile widened as she realized who the visitor was speaking of, and grew larger as he nodded in response. "You're right to say that he used to live in that house there. But since the Rebellion, he moved out to the small hunting cabin outside the town limits . . ."

After getting directions from the lady, he nodded his thanks, and went on his way. He still wasn't that good with directions, and the town was confusing to newbies. Even when he had been in the town, he hadn't wandered that much. Only the basics were shown to him. When he got to the cabin, however, he hesitated approaching the door. Would he be mad? It had been two years, and he probably wasn't happy to have been 'forgotten' . . .

Just before he was about to knock, the door flung open, and a disheveled Will Treaty stood in the doorway. He no longer wore the jacket made from his ripped Ranger cloak, but just a normal jacket. A normal shirt. It was refreshing to see him like that, but the face is what broke him. The dark circles were still there. A confused but upset frown creased his face, underneath darkly circled eyes. He hadn't shaved in a few days, which usually meant that he hadn't been in the best mood, but his hair was thrown into a messy ponytail behind his head, proving that he was in some sort of 'I-think-I-might-need-help-to-manage-this-day' kind of mood.

They stood there, staring at each other for a few minutes.

Will spoke first. "Well, Eli, 'bout time you showed back up. Horace thought you died or some crap. Want some lunch?"


End file.
